Part 46

Tony nodded. "Aw wight," he said. "Come on. Le's make fire!"

The fire was made, out of a packing-box brought up from the cellar. It burned realistically down by the orchard, and was only discovered by chance when Anthony Robeson, Junior, happened to glance that way.

"Fire!--fire!" he shouted, and alarmed the fire company, who, as fire companies should be, were ready to start on the instant. The hose-cart, propelled by a pair of stout legs, made a gallant dash down the edge of the garden, followed by the hook-and-ladder company, their equipment just three feet long. It took energetic and skilful work to quench the conflagration, which raged furiously and made plenty of good black smoke. The fire chief rushed dramatically about, ordering his men with ringing commands. Once he stubbed his bare toe and fell, and for a moment it looked as though he must cry, but like the brave fellow that he was he smothered his pain behind an uplifted elbow, and in a moment was again in the thick of the fray. His men obeyed him with admirable promptitude, although, contrary to the usual custom of fire chiefs, he himself took hold of the hose and poured its volume upon the blazing structure.

When the fire was out the chief, breathless, his blue blouse bearing the marks of the encounter with flood and flame, sat down upon the overturned hose-cart and beamed upon his company.

"Vat was awful nice fire," he said. "Le's have anuver."

"Another? Oh, no," protested the company, hastily. "No more of that just now. Pick up your hook-and-ladder wagon and put it back where it belongs. I'll see to the hose."

Anthony gently displaced the fire chief and rolled away the hose. Then he looked back down the garden and saw his son poking among the ruins of the fire. "Come here, Tony," he called, "and bring the hook-and-ladder."

Tony came slowly, but without the toy wagon. Anthony stood still. When the boy reached him he said, "Why didn't you bring the hook-and-ladder cart?"

"'Cause I'm ve chief," Tony responded gravely. "My mens'll bring ve cart."

"Your men aren't there. You'll have to bring it yourself."

Tony shook his head. "I'm ve chief," he repeated, and looked his father in the eye. Anthony understood. It was not the first time. There were moments in one's experience with Anthony Robeson, Junior, when one seemed to encounter a deadlock in the child's will. Reasoning and commands were apt at such times to be alike futile. The odd thing about it was that it was impossible to predict when these moments were at hand. They arose without warning, when the boy was apparently in the best of tempers, and they did not seem to be the result of any previous mismanagement on the part of those in authority over him.

Of one point Anthony, Senior, was sure. The child, like all children, and possibly more than most, possessed a vivid imagination. When he announced himself to be a fire chief, there could be no question that he believed himself to be for the time that which he pretended to be. His father understood, therefore, that to make progress with the boy it was necessary to get back to the standpoint of reality before commands could be expected to take hold. So he sat down on a rustic seat near Juliet's roses and spoke in a pleasantly matter-of-fact way.

"Yes, you've been a fire chief, son, and a good one. That was a great game. But the game is over now, and you're not a fire chief any more. You're Tony Robeson, and the little hook-and-ladder cart is your plaything. Father wants you to bring it here and put it in its place in the house. It looks a little bit like rain, and the cart mustn't be left out to get wet. See?"

But Tony still shook his head. "My men'll put it in," he said, with calmness undisturbed.

"You haven't any men. You played there were some, but the play is over and there aren't any men. If you don't put the cart in it may get wet."

"I'm ve chief," said little Tony. "Chiefs don't draw carts."

"When they've turned back to little boys they do. You've turned back to a little boy."

"No, I hasn't," said Tony, and his eyes met his father's unflinchingly. "I's going to be a chief all ve time."

The argument seemed unanswerable. Anthony considered swiftly what to do. He studied the grave brown eyes an instant in silence, their beauty and the inflexibility in their depths appealing to him with equal force. He loved the tough little will. He recognised it as his own--the same powerful quality which had brought him thus far on the road to fortune after being landed at the furthermost end from the goal. He would not for worlds deal with his son's will in any but the way which should seem to him wisest.

He rose from his seat. He spoke quietly but with force. "Very well," he said. "If you're still a fire chief, of course you're too big to play. I'm much obliged to you for putting out my fire. But now that it's out I don't want your hook-and-ladder in my garden any longer. When your men take it away I shall be glad. But of course we can't play any more till you stop being a fire chief and the hook-and-ladder is back in its corner in the nursery. Good-bye. When you are ready to be Tony Robeson again, you'll find me in my den."

He smiled at his son and walked away. Tony watched him go. Tony's hands were clasped behind his back, his legs planted wide apart.

Anthony, Senior, found it difficult to remain in the den. He was obliged to keep track of a small figure in a blue blouse from whichever of the various windows commanded the doings of that young person. He perceived that the fire chief was still holding dominion over the scene.

At the end of an hour small footsteps were heard approaching. Anthony looked up from the letter he was attempting to write. "Favver, may I have a bread and butter?" asked a pleasant voice. Anthony turned about in his chair.

"Is the hook-and-ladder in the nursery?" he inquired gravely.

Tony shook his head.

"Oh, then you are still the fire chief. Fire chiefs go to the hotel for their bread and butter. I haven't any bread and butter for the fire chief."

He turned back to his desk. The small figure in the doorway stood still a moment, then the footsteps were heard retreating. Five minutes later, Anthony, looking out, saw Tony careering about the garden on a hobby-horse.

"Obstinate little duffer," he said affectionately to himself. "He's playing go to the hotel, I suppose. Perhaps when that imagination of his gets to work at hypothetical bread and butter he'll find the reality preferable to the fancy."