Chapter 4

DEAD SEA FRUIT

"Why don't I never have no fav-ver?"

Often David asked that question; upon awakening and upon going to bed he was pretty sure to make inquiries that were never satisfactorily answered. And now, one morning, it was a decided relief to Mother to have him ask something else. With eager questioning he said:

"Am I?"

Early, very early, he had awakened her to ask her that, for he had been told, on going to bed, that when the day should come again he would be four years old. Twice in the night he had asked if he was It; so when the dawn at last showed with a lovely pinkness in the lacy folds of the curtains, and the note of a far-away meadow-lark called him into the glory of birthday happiness, he wanted to be very certain that this famous period of his life had actually come.

Before demanding if it were quite true, he lay still awhile and thought about it. He looked at Mother's face, and snuggled his fingers into the fairy foam of her nightgown, but the face and the fairy foam at her throat had not changed in the least. They were just the same as they had been yesterday and the day before and the day before that.

It was very strange. He had supposed that when a little boy is four years old, his life would be somehow--different. That is why he was still in doubt; he was not at all sure about being four years old. He would wake up Mother and then, if he _was_ It, she would make him feel that he was.

Her reassurance, though, was not nearly so satisfying as he had hoped.

"Yes, dear; it's your birthday. Now go to sleep awhile, my pretty."

David lay very still, but he did not go to sleep. By and by he asked rather uneasily:

"What do you do first?"

"What do you mean, little boy?"

"Little? _Am_ I little?"

"Of course you're growing," Mother told him.

But David would not be deceived. Already the suspicion had come to him that there was nothing grand about being four years old. It was not a success; it was a failure, and his one hope now rested in Dr. Redfield, for this was the morning when the Doctor had promised to waylay the little boy.

"How does _that_ begin?" David asked. He could not think what it was that began.

"How does _what_ begin?" Mother inquired.

And that was not nice nor reasonable of her. Mothers are made to answer questions, not to ask questions, and they are so discouraging when they can't understand about being waylaid! David felt abused, but he decided to have one more try at her. Then, if she didn't give him satisfaction, he would know that Four Years Old was all a humbug. As he looked longingly into her face, his words faltered, as though he were again expecting disappointment.

"Will he--will he wear his big, shiny hat when he does it?"

Into Mother's face came a puzzled, half knowing look. She recalled the admiration inspired in a certain little boy by a certain abominable top hat that a certain doctor had once worn to a certain annual meeting of the State Medical Society. But this was the extent of her knowledge.

"When he does what?" she asked.

The little boy's lip trembled, and he turned away his face. He saw it wasn't any use. Mother didn't understand; she evidently hadn't tried. It was plain that he was not four years old; he was only three. It is very hard on little boys to be only that old when they have made up their minds to be four. So, when David was being dressed, he suffered all the while with a severe case of what is commonly called pouts, but which in reality is something much sadder.

"My, my!" said Mother, as she drew a stocking over the pink toes of his right foot, "one mustn't look like that on his birthday."

"It is not my birthday," he said, not impertinently, but politely and woefully.

Even a pair of new shoes did not prove that this was his birthday, and yet they helped to prove it. One gets them at such times as Christmas and birthdays, and such a delightful squeak was in these shoes that David could scarcely eat his breakfast for wanting to walk about in them. If a circus should come to town, he would now be ready for it; he had the shoes. And besides, there were tassels on them--wonderful tassels. It is much easier to be a brave soldier-man if they have tassels.

Do you know what it is to be a brave soldier-man? Well, to be that, one must be kind and sweet and unselfish and do right. And doing right is doing mostly what you don't want to do. To wash a lot--that is right; to keep your fingers out of the pie--that is right; to keep your hands from spilling mucilage on the cat's back--that is right. If you make dents with a tack-hammer in Mother's piano, that is not right; that is a surprise.

The only safe way of doing right is to think of what you would rather do, and then do something else. But often this is such hard work that sometimes one doesn't care much about being a brave soldier-man.

For all that, it's jolly fine to have soldier shoes. They came to David in time to save his faith in the business of being four years old. It now began to have a glad feel about it, and he walked perkily to the garden's edge, and like a new Columbus about to discover a fresh world, climbed up experimentally and sat on the gate-post.

He was not at all sure that this was a proper place to get waylaid, but something monstrous fine would of course happen before long; there could be no doubt about that. How people would be astonished when they came along and found that he had grown to be four years old!

Who would be the first, he wondered, to be shocked and surprised at him? While he was thinking of that, his eyes suddenly brightened with excitement. The street-sprinkler, the dear old street-sprinkler, was coming! David's heart beat faster as he listened to the slow creak and clacking oscillation of the heavy wheels. Then came the damp, dusty, good smell which always brought to him such a sense of mysterious romance! No prince out of a fairy story could be more marvelous to him than the coatless driver up there on the seat under his great canvas umbrella that had advertisements printed on it. Always when the street-sprinkler passed, David had watched it covetously, and now was his chance. He would proclaim himself. He would not have to wish--and wish--and wish any more about it. That proud place up there by the driver was for him. He didn't doubt it in the least; he called; he called lustily; he kicked his new shoes against the fence-post and called:

"Here I am! See, right down here!"

But will you believe it, now? The driver didn't look at him. Perhaps the lazy clamor of the wagon and the hissing sound of the steadily gushing water made too big a noise for the voice of such a little boy to be heard.

Do you call that any way for the street-sprinkler man to act? But of course there might be some good reason for such criminal behavior. David remembered that he hadn't consulted any fairy godmother about it; long since he would have done so, only he could never catch any fairy godmothers hanging around. They were always busy somewhere else. Even Mother herself had failed to introduce him to any competent, respectable fairy godmothers. She was all right on telling about them; she was strong on that, but somehow they never seemed to know when they were wanted. That is their great fault; they are so unreliable. Once let them get loose from a Cinderella book, and their business system is always defective.

How, then, can a little boy expect to accomplish any miracles like riding on the street-sprinkler? It is not reasonable; David himself decided that it wasn't, and he concluded to try something more feasible, something that looked simple and easy and more natural. Next time he would do better. Why shouldn't he? When one is four years old, nearly anything ought to be possible. All he had to do was to await another opportunity, and then pounce down on it.

This time, though, it was slow in coming, and when it did come it didn't look much like an opportunity. It was too easy. In shape it was a very ragged man with a very dirty face and a very red nose and a very greasy hat. He came by, a-munching on an apple, a big apple, a crispy-sounding apple, a shiny ripe and luscious apple. How cool it would feel in a little boy's hands if he were to hold it tight and then take a big, sweet, juicy bite out of it!

Should David accept the remainder of the man's apple? No, that would not be right; little boys must not be greedy. Just the teeniest, weeniest, wee bite would be quite sufficient for him.

But, heigh-ho and alack-aday! the dirty-faced man and the red-nosed man and the man with the greasy hat passed slouchily on, a-munching and a-crunching of his apple.

That was enough. David cast himself down from the fence-post of deception and was off for the house, his arm before his eyes, and his new shoes creaking dolorously. He must find refuge in Mother's lap; she must help him to soothe away his hurt; he must have solace for this wretched failure of great hopes.

But before reaching her, David suddenly found himself seized by some mysterious force which sent him floating into space. Back and forth he swam like, a pendulum, and when he alighted, it was on a man's shoulder, and the man was Dr. Redfield.

"You're not hurt, are you?" he asked.

David would not be comforted. He struggled to the ground.

"What's the use?" he demanded between sobs. "What's the use of being four years old?"