in an off-hand way with a certain sigh that he could hear clearly in his fancy, but in the telling his sigh stuck in his throat, and such a hurt came there that he remarked to himself: “Thisis what they mean when they say they have
a lump in their throat.
”
Two mischances had disgraced him on the way from school. Half through Scylla and Charybdis, on the Scylla side, he had heard a buzzing just behind his hip, which taking for a bee he had spun round in mortal alarm and flailed at. No bee was there, but at once the buzzing recurred behind him. Again he wheeled about—was the creature in his pocket!—and took quick leaps forward; when the bee only buzzed more menacingly, he sprinted to the corner, heedless of what certain classmates might think. He had to wait for passing traffic, and observed that as he slowed and halted, so did the buzzing. It was the loose chain of his own jacknife had undone him.
“What’s eating you?” Wimpy James hollered, who till then had been too busy with Crazy Alice to molest him.
Ambrose had frowned at the pointing fingers of his watch. “Timing myself to the corner!”
But at that instant a loose lash dropped into his eye, and his tears could be neither hidden nor explained away.
“Scared of Kocher’s dog!” one had yelled.
Another sing-sang: “Sissy on Am-brose! Sissy on Am-brose!”
And Wimpy James, in the nastiest of accents:
“Run home and git
A sugar tit,
And don’t let go of it!”
There was no saving face then except by taking on Wimpy, for which he knew he had not courage. Indeed, so puissant was that fellow, who loved to stamp on toes with all his might or twist the skin of arms with a warty hot-hand, Ambrose was obliged to play the clown in order to escape. His father, thanks to the Kaiser, walked with a limp famous among the schoolboys of East Dorset, scores of whom had been chastized for mocking it; but none could imitate that walk as could his son. Ambrose stiffened his leg so, hunched his shoulders and pumped his arms,frowned and bobbed with every step—the very image of the Old Man! Just so, when the highway cleared, he had borne down upon his house as might a gimpy robin on a worm, or his dad upon some youthful miscreant, and Wimpy had laughed instead of giving chase. But the sound went into Ambrose like a blade.
“You are not any such thing!” his mother cried, and hugged him to her breast. “What you call brave, a little criminal like Wimpy James?”
He was ready to defend that notion, but colored Hattie walked in then, snapping gum, to ask what wanted ironing.
“You go on upstairs and put your playclothes on if you’re going down to the Jungle with Peter.”
He was not deaf to the solicitude in his mother’s voice, but lest she fail to appreciate the measure of his despair, he climbed the stairs with heavy foot. However, she had to go straighten Hattie out.
When vanilla-fudge Hattie was in the kitchen, Mother’s afternoon programs went by the board. Hattie had worked for them since a girl, and currently supported three children and a husband who lost her money on the horses. No one knew how much if anything she grasped about his betting, but throughout the afternoons she insisted on the Baltimore station that broadcast results from Bowie and Pimlico, and Ambrose’s mother had not the heart to say no. When a race began Hattie would up-end the electric iron and squint at the refrigerator, snapping ferociously her gum; then she acknowledged each separate return with a
hum
and a shake of the head.
“Warlord paid four-eighty, three-forty, and two-eighty …”
“Mm hm.”
“Argonaut, four-sixty and three-forty …”
“Mm
hm.
”
“Sal’s Pride, two-eighty …”
“Mmmm
hm!
”
After which she resumed her labors and the radio its musical selections until the next race. This music affected Ambrosestrongly: it was not at all of a stripe with what they played on Fitch Bandwagon or National Barn Dance; this between races was
a lump in their throat.
”
Two mischances had disgraced him on the way from school. Half through Scylla and Charybdis, on the Scylla side, he had heard a buzzing just behind his hip, which taking for a bee he had spun round in mortal alarm and flailed at. No bee was there, but at once the buzzing recurred behind him. Again he wheeled about—was the creature in his pocket!—and took quick leaps forward; when the bee only buzzed more menacingly, he sprinted to the corner, heedless of what certain classmates might think. He had to wait for passing traffic, and observed that as he slowed and halted, so did the buzzing. It was the loose chain of his own jacknife had undone him.
“What’s eating you?” Wimpy James hollered, who till then had been too busy with Crazy Alice to molest him.
Ambrose had frowned at the pointing fingers of his watch. “Timing myself to the corner!”
But at that instant a loose lash dropped into his eye, and his tears could be neither hidden nor explained away.
“Scared of Kocher’s dog!” one had yelled.
Another sing-sang: “Sissy on Am-brose! Sissy on Am-brose!”
And Wimpy James, in the nastiest of accents:
“Run home and git
A sugar tit,
And don’t let go of it!”
There was no saving face then except by taking on Wimpy, for which he knew he had not courage. Indeed, so puissant was that fellow, who loved to stamp on toes with all his might or twist the skin of arms with a warty hot-hand, Ambrose was obliged to play the clown in order to escape. His father, thanks to the Kaiser, walked with a limp famous among the schoolboys of East Dorset, scores of whom had been chastized for mocking it; but none could imitate that walk as could his son. Ambrose stiffened his leg so, hunched his shoulders and pumped his arms,frowned and bobbed with every step—the very image of the Old Man! Just so, when the highway cleared, he had borne down upon his house as might a gimpy robin on a worm, or his dad upon some youthful miscreant, and Wimpy had laughed instead of giving chase. But the sound went into Ambrose like a blade.
“You are not any such thing!” his mother cried, and hugged him to her breast. “What you call brave, a little criminal like Wimpy James?”
He was ready to defend that notion, but colored Hattie walked in then, snapping gum, to ask what wanted ironing.
“You go on upstairs and put your playclothes on if you’re going down to the Jungle with Peter.”
He was not deaf to the solicitude in his mother’s voice, but lest she fail to appreciate the measure of his despair, he climbed the stairs with heavy foot. However, she had to go straighten Hattie out.
When vanilla-fudge Hattie was in the kitchen, Mother’s afternoon programs went by the board. Hattie had worked for them since a girl, and currently supported three children and a husband who lost her money on the horses. No one knew how much if anything she grasped about his betting, but throughout the afternoons she insisted on the Baltimore station that broadcast results from Bowie and Pimlico, and Ambrose’s mother had not the heart to say no. When a race began Hattie would up-end the electric iron and squint at the refrigerator, snapping ferociously her gum; then she acknowledged each separate return with a
hum
and a shake of the head.
“Warlord paid four-eighty, three-forty, and two-eighty …”
“Mm hm.”
“Argonaut, four-sixty and three-forty …”
“Mm
hm.
”
“Sal’s Pride, two-eighty …”
“Mmmm
hm!
”
After which she resumed her labors and the radio its musical selections until the next race. This music affected Ambrosestrongly: it was not at all of a stripe with what they played on Fitch Bandwagon or National Barn Dance; this between races was
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