The Coming of Bill

Steve's reflections during this period had not been of the pleasantest. Exactly what his explanation was to be, if by any mischance he should make a noise and be detected, he had been unable to decide. Finally he had dismissed the problem as insoluble, and had concentrated his mind on taking precautions to omit any such noise.

So far he had succeeded. He had found his way to the nursery easily enough, having marked the location earnestly on his previous visits. During the whole of his conversation with Keggs in the pantry he had been repeating to himself the magic formula which began: "First staircase to the left—turn to the right——-" and here he was now at his goal and ready to begin.

But it was just this question of beginning which exercised him so grievously. How was he to begin? Should he go straight to the cot and wake the kid? Suppose the kid was scared and let out a howl?

A warm, prickly sensation about the forehead was Steve's silent comment on this reflection. He took a step forward and stopped again. He was conscious of tremors about the region of the spine. The thought crossed his mind at that moment that burglars earned their money.

As he stood, hesitating, his problem was solved for him. There came a heavy sigh from the direction of the cot which made him start as if a pistol had exploded in his ear; and then he was aware of two large eyes staring at him.

There was a tense pause. A drop of perspiration rolled down his cheek-bone and anchored itself stickily on the angle of his jaw. It tickled abominably, but he did not dare to move for fear of unleashing the scream which brooded over the situation like a cloud.

At any moment now a howl of terror might rip the silence and bring the household on the run. And then—the explanations! A second drop of perspiration started out in the wake of the first.

The large eyes continued to inspect him. They were clouded with sleep. Suddenly a frightened look came into them, and, as he saw it, Steve braced his muscles for the shock.

"Here it comes!" he said miserably to himself. "Oh, Lord! We're off!"

He searched in his brain for speech, desperately, as the best man at a wedding searches for that ring while the universe stands still, waiting expectantly.

He found no speech.

The child's mouth opened. Steve eyed him, fascinated. No bird, encountering a snake, was ever so incapable of movement as he.

"Are you a germ?" inquired William Bannister.

Steve tottered to the cot and sat down on it. The relief was too much for him.

"Gee, kid!" he said, "you had my goat then. I've got to hand it to you."

His sudden approach had confirmed William Bannister's worst suspicions. This was precisely how he had expected the germ to behave. He shrank back on the pillow, gulping.

"Why, for the love of Mike," said Steve, "don't you know me, kid? I'm not a porch-climber. Don't you remember Steve who used to raise Hades with you at the studio? Darn it, I'm your godfather! I'm Steve!"

William Bannister sat up, partially reassured.

"What's Steve?" he inquired.

"I'm Steve."

"Why?"

"How do you mean—why?"

The large eyes inspected him gravely.

"I remember," he said finally.

"Well, don't go forgetting, kid. I couldn't stand a second session like that. I got a weak heart."

"You're Steve."

"That's right. Stick to that and we'll get along fine."

"I thought you were a germ."

"A what?"

"They get at you and hurt you."

"Who said so?"

"Mamie."

"Are you scared of germs?"

The White Hope nodded gravely.

"I have to be sterilized because of them. Are you sterilized?"

"Nobody ever told me so. But, say, kid, you don't want to be frightened of germs or microbes or bacilli or any of the rest of the circus. You don't want to be frightened of nothing. You're the White Hope, the bear-cat that ain't scared of anything on earth. What's this germ thing like, anyway?"

"It's a——I've never seen one, but Mamie says they get at you and hurt you. I think it's a kind of big sort of ugly man that creeps in when you're asleep."

"So that's why you thought I was one?"

The White Hope nodded.

"Forget it!" said Steve. "Mamie is a queen, all right, believe me, but she's got the wrong dope on this microbe proposition. You don't need to be scared of them any more. Why, some of me best pals are germs."

"What's pals?"

"Why, friends. You and me are pals. Me and your pop are pals."

"Where's pop?"

"He's gone away."

"I remember."

"He thought he needed a change of air. Don't you ever need a change of air?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you do. Take it from me. This is about the punkest joint I ever was in. You don't want to stay in a dairy-kitchen like this."

"What's dairy-kitchen?"

"This is. All these white tiles and fixings. It makes me feel like a pint of milk to look at 'em."

"It's because of the germs."

"Ain't I telling you the germs don't want to hurt you?"

"Aunt Lora told Mamie they do."