Rufus M. Read online

  A little light shone through the dusty windows, but on the whole it was very dark and spooky down here and Rufus really wished that he was back on the outside looking in. However, since he was in the library, why not go upstairs quick, get the Brownie book, and go home? The window had banged shut, but he thought he could climb up the coal pile, pull the window up, and get out. He certainly hoped he could anyway. Supposing he couldn’t and he had to stay in this cellar! Well, that he would not think about. He looked around in the dusky light and saw a staircase across the cellar. Luckily his application was still good. It was torn and dirty but it still had his name on it, RUFUS M., and that was the important part. He’d leave this on the desk in exchange for the Brownie book.

  Rufus cautiously made his way over to the steps but he stopped halfway across the cellar. Somebody had opened the door at the top of the stairs. He couldn’t see who it was, but he did see the light reflected and that’s how he knew that somebody had opened the door. It must be the lady. He was just going to say, “Hey, lady,” when he thought, Gee, maybe it isn’t the lady. Maybe it’s a spooky thing.

  Then the light went away, the door was closed, and Rufus was left in the dark again. He didn’t like it down here. He started to go back to the coal pile to get out of this place. Then he felt his application. What a lot of work he had done to get a book and now that he was this near to getting one, should he give up? No. Anyway, if it was the lady up there, he knew her and she knew him and neither one of them was scared of the other. And Mama always said there’s no such thing as a spooky thing.

  So Rufus bravely made his way again to the stairs. He tiptoed up them. The door at the head was not closed tightly. He pushed it open and found himself right in the library. But goodness! There in the little sink room right opposite him was the library lady!

  Rufus stared at her in silence. The library lady was eating. Rufus had never seen her do anything before but play cards, punch books, and carry great piles of them around. Now she was eating. Mama said not to stare at anybody while they were eating. Still, Rufus didn’t know the library lady ate, so it was hard for him not to look at her.

  She had a little gas stove in there. She could cook there. She was reading a book at the same time that she was eating. Sylvie could do that, too. This lady did not see him.

  “Hey, lady,” said Rufus.

  The librarian jumped up out of her seat. “Was that you in the cellar? I thought I heard somebody. Goodness, young man! I thought you had gone home long ago.”

  Rufus didn’t say anything. He just stood there. He had gone home and he had come back lots of times. He had the whole thing in his mind: the coming and going, and going and coming, and sliding down the coal pile, but he did not know where to begin, how to tell it.

  “Didn’t you know the library is closed now?” she demanded, coming across the floor with firm steps.

  Rufus remained silent. No, he hadn’t known it. The fellow had told him but he hadn’t believed him. Now he could see for himself that the library was closed so the library lady could eat. If the lady would let him take his book, he’d go home and stay there. He’d play the game of Find the Duke with Jane. He hopefully held out his card with his name on it.

  “Here this is,” he said.

  But the lady acted as though she didn’t even see it. She led Rufus over to the door.

  “All right now,” she said. “Out with you!” But just as she opened the door the sound of water boiling over on the stove struck their ears, and back she raced to her little room.

  “Gracious!” she exclaimed. “What a day!”

  Before the door could close on him, Rufus followed her in and sat down on the edge of a chair. The lady thought he had gone and started to sip her tea. Rufus watched her quietly, waiting for her to finish.

  After a while the lady brushed the crumbs off her lap. And then she washed her hands and the dishes in the little sink where Rufus had washed his hands. In a library a lady could eat and could wash. Maybe she slept here, too. Maybe she lived here.

  “Do you live here?” Rufus asked her.

  “Mercy on us!” exclaimed the lady. “Where’d you come from? Didn’t I send you home? No, I don’t live here and neither do you. Come now, out with you, young man. I mean it.” The lady called all boys “young man” and all girls “Susie.” She came out of the little room and she opened the big brown door again. “There,” she said. “Come back on Thursday.”

  Rufus’s eyes filled up with tears.

  “Here’s this,” he said again, holding up his application in a last desperate attempt. But the lady shook her head. Rufus went slowly down the steps, felt around in the bushes for his scooter, and with drooping spirits he mounted it. Then for the second time that day, the library lady changed her mind.

  “Oh, well,” she said, “come back here, young man. I’m not supposed to do business when the library’s closed, but I see we’ll have to make an exception.”

  So Rufus rubbed his sooty hands over his face, hid his scooter in the bushes again, climbed the granite steps, and without circling the light he went back in and gave the lady his application.

  The lady took it gingerly. “My, it’s dirty,” she said. “You really ought to sign another one.”

  “And go home with it?” asked Rufus. He really didn’t believe this was possible. He wiped his hot face on his sleeve and looked up at the lady in exhaustion. What he was thinking was: All right. If he had to sign another one, all right. But would she just please stay open until he got back?

  However, this was not necessary. The lady said, “Well now, I’ll try to clean this old one up. But remember, young man, always have everything clean—your hands, your book, everything, when you come to the library.”

  Rufus nodded solemnly. “My feet, too,” he assured her.

  Then the lady made Rufus wash his hands again. They really were very bad this time, for he had been in a coal pile, and now at last she gave Rufus the book he wanted—one of the Palmer Cox Brownie books. This one was The Brownies in the Philippines.

  And Rufus went home.

  When he reached home, he showed Mama his book. She smiled at him, and gave his cheek a pat. She thought it was fine that he had gone to the library and joined all by himself and taken out a book. And she thought it was fine when Rufus sat down at the kitchen table, was busy and quiet for a long, long time, and then showed her what he had done.

  He had printed RUFUS M. That was what he had done. And that’s the way he learned to sign his name. And that’s the way he always did sign his name for a long, long time.

  But, of course, that was before he ever went to school at all, when the Moffats still lived in the old house, the yellow house on New Dollar Street; before this country had gone into the war; and before Mr. Abbot, the curate, started leaving his overshoes on the Moffats’ front porch.

  2

  A Trainload of Soldiers

  Now the Moffats lived in a tiny little house set far back from the street on Ashbellows Place. And Rufus could write and print the offat part of Moffat as well as Rufus M. He could do this with either hand, his right hand or his left hand. Moreover, he was knitting a washcloth for the soldiers because now this country had joined the war. And Mr. Abbot, the young curate, left his overshoes more and more often on the Moffats’ front porch as he thought up more and more reasons for coming to call. First it was cassocks Mama must sew for him. Then it was about the bazaar.

  Of course, the real reason probably was that he hoped to find Sylvie at home. Maybe he hoped to marry her someday. All the Moffats thought this would not be surprising since she had the prettiest voice in the whole choir and did not sing fluttery like Mrs. Peale. So that was why Mr. Abbot’s overshoes were on the porch so often. He always wore his overshoes, in rain or shine, because his work carried him far afield, through muddy fields and lots.

  As for Sylvie, she was going to the Art School, where she had won a scholarship. She was dancing and singing in every play that was put on for
the soldiers. Moreover, she was working for the Red Cross. She was not knitting a washcloth, though. Rufus was.

  Rufus was the only one of the four Moffats who was knitting a washcloth for the soldiers. Up in Jane’s room at school they were knitting gray and khaki scarves and helmets. Even sweaters. And Jane was trying to learn how to purl. Not Rufus. You do not have to purl a washcloth. Just straight knit it.

  Rufus’s whole room was knitting washcloths. The teacher gave everybody a ball of string and showed them how to cast on. She usually explained all things twice to the class, once to the right-handers and once to Rufus, the only left-hander.

  For some time Rufus had not been sure whether he was left-handed or right-handed. That was because his teachers had not been able to make up their minds, not till the teacher he had now, his Room Three teacher. It is true his Room One teacher considered him a left-handed boy and never tried to change him. But his Room Two teacher felt it was her bounden duty at least to try to break Rufus of the habit of writing with his left hand, even though he did so much better with it than the right.

  As a consequence, Rufus’s writing the year he was in Room Two was very bad. Gold stars were awarded to those children who wrote well, and according to the approved Houston method. Rufus did not write well. Nevertheless his Room Two teacher gave him gold stars because she thought the great effort involved in writing with his right hand merited the reward. Lest the class think that she was rewarding him for that dreadful right-handed writing of his, however, she always wrote in blue crayon along the top of his paper, “Rufus did this with his right hand.” It was as though she would give a gold star to some right-handed person who wrote with his left. But she hoped that by the end of the year Rufus would be a good right-handed writer.

  The teacher he had now, his Room Three teacher, decided that Rufus was definitely left-handed and he and the world in general might as well get used to this fact. Rufus was very happy to have the matter settled, because his left hand had always seemed the right hand to him, the right one, that is, for writing, eating, combing his hair, for pitching balls, playing marbles, and even mumblety-peg, too.

  At home Rufus had always been accepted as the only left-handed member of the family, and nobody had tried to switch him from left to right. He sat at the end of the table opposite Mama at dinner time. Since a left-handed eater’s elbow is apt to bump into a right-handed eater’s elbow, Rufus sat at the end of the table and bumped into no one.

  And in school when the writing lesson was to begin and the children of Room Three were told to tilt their papers a little to the left, Rufus was told to tilt his a little to the right. The teacher hoped this would produce the same results all around. For a time this paper tilting was confusing to Rufus. He had a tendency to tip the paper practically upside down, encircle it with his left arm and write. After a while he learned to hold it at the proper angle and to cover it rapidly with those round spirals the teacher liked the class to make.

  These spirals were not easy to make, left-handed or right-handed. Sylvie was the best spiral maker of the four Moffats. Her spirals began a certain size and ended the same size, like one of her curls. Not Rufus’s. His spirals grew larger and larger so that at the end of the line they covered twice as much space as at the beginning and looked like bedsprings. But spirals were nothing compared to washcloths, and Rufus paid very close attention while the teacher showed how to cast on the stitches.

  All the children cast the same number of stitches onto their needles, but this did not mean that all the washcloths were going to be the same size. Not at all. Some were big and some were small, although they all started out with the same number of stitches cast on.

  Rufus’s washcloth was one of the kind that grew wider and wider as it grew longer. He knit the way he wrote, with large, loose, generous stitches. And maybe it was because he was left-handed that many of his stitches had a way of turning upside down. Every now and then Jane cast off some stitches at the side for him so the washcloth would not become too wide. Also she added some stitches in the middle to fill in some of the biggest holes.

  “Try and knit closer together,” she urged Rufus. “This looks more like a fishnet.”

  Sometimes in school, Room Three knit instead of doing their spelling or arithmetic. The girls went fast and the boys went slow, but they all knit hard on their washcloths. One girl made three while Rufus made his one. This girl was Emma Ryder. She was sent from room to room with her washcloths. “Look!” said all the teachers to their classes. “A little girl in Room Three and she has made three washcloths!” And all the big girls who had not yet made three would squirm in their chairs and resolve to do better. Yes, she made three, but Rufus did work hard on his one and at last he finished it. In fact, all the washcloths were finished now. Rufus’s was very dirty, especially the beginning of it that he had knit the first. The end that he had just finished was not quite so dirty because the string inside the ball was still fairly clean.

  Mama said she hoped she would be able to boil the dirt out of it and make it good and white for some soldier. Rufus watched her wash it and wash it. Finally it did get fairly white except for the first rows that Rufus had had to undo so many times in the beginning. These remained slightly gray. “But it’s pure,” said Mama, “because I boiled it.”

  Rufus then took it back to school. The teacher, Miss Wells, told the class to fold their washcloths and she passed around little squares of paper for them to print their names on and pin to their own washcloths.

  RUFUS M. ROOM THREE, he printed. Of course, he could have printed his whole name, but he had gotten in the habit of writing just M. for Moffat in the library that day long ago and he still signed his name that way.

  Why did the teacher ask the class to sign their washcloths? Rufus wondered. Was there going to be a new place on their report cards marked “washcloths,” where she would give them a good or a bad? Or, and this was more likely, he thought, did a soldier want to know who knit his washcloth so he could write a letter to the fellow who did? Rufus might get a letter someday from some soldier saying he liked this loose washcloth.

  Two girls, Emma Ryder and another, then collected the washcloths and folded them in neat piles on the tables in the front of the room. Rufus thought he could see his about halfway down the outside pile. Because his was bigger than the others and the color more of a pearly gray, it was easy to recognize.

  “There,” said the teacher. “Now tomorrow I’ll send them all over to the Red Cross and the Red Cross will send them overseas.”

  The class then sat with hands folded, hoping she would pass around another ball of string instead of the arithmetic books. But she didn’t. She passed around the books.

  Rufus was very happy to have finished his washcloth and now left-handed and right-handed washcloths alike were up there on the table and the soldiers would have them soon.

  For a time Rufus was content with the thought that the Red Cross was going to take care of the matter of sending his washcloth overseas. He was content until that afternoon. Then the teacher said she had a surprise for them. The whole class, in fact the whole school, was going to march to the railroad station to wave good-bye to a trainload of soldiers who were off to camp.

  Good, thought Rufus. Here’s a chance to give the washcloths to the soldiers right now. They won’t have to wait until they get over there.

  But the teacher did not think of that. She left the washcloths right where they were, and furthermore she told Rufus that she did not have time for questions now when he raised his hand to ask about this. “Girls in line,” she said. “Boys in line.” She did not mention washcloths. She only gave instructions. “Everybody stay in line all the way to the railroad station.” Then she had the monitors pass around the flags and she gave the girls bouquets of flowers to toss to the soldiers.

  The children stood in line in the hall. The lines stretched back into the cloakroom. All up and down the corridor other classes were lining up outside of their rooms. The you
ngest classes were to march out first, the highest last. Room One marched out now with Mr. Pennypepper, the Superintendent, leading in the very front. Room Two was warming up. “One, two. One, two,” said the teacher.

  Rufus’s class would march out next. Rufus had become more and more bothered about the washcloths. Here they were, all of Room Three, marching to the station to see the soldiers off and they weren’t taking the washcloths with them. This seemed foolish to Rufus. Why had they made these washcloths for the soldiers? For the soldiers to use, of course. The sooner they had them the better, he thought. It was funny the teacher didn’t think of this.

  “Ev-ry-bo-dy keep-in step, shoul-ders back, eyes a-head.” That’s what Miss Wells kept intoning, and it was really all she seemed to have time to think about.

  Rufus was sure that it was a mistake to leave the washcloths in the pile on the table. He guessed he’d go in and get his. He guessed he’d give it to a soldier himself this afternoon. Quick! Before his class started moving! Now was a good chance because Miss Wells had stepped over to have a hurried word with the teacher of Room Four before giving the order to march. Rufus darted back into the classroom and over to the table where the washcloths for the soldiers were stacked. He pulled out one with a very dingy fringe along the edge. It looked familiar to him and he hoped it was his. It was! Hurrah! He stuffed it in his coat pocket.

  As Rufus stepped back into his place in line, the teacher clapped her hands at him and shook her head disapprovingly, but that was all she a did. And now he had his washcloth to give right to some soldier.

  Room Three started to march out. The children marched straight down the long corridor and out the front door, not the side door children usually came in and out of, but the big front door. Ordinarily only Mr. Pennypepper and the important teachers used the big front door. The only time children were allowed to come in and go out this way was during fire drill; and occasionally, if a child were sent to the Board of Health in the middle of the morning to see if he had the measles, he could use this door.