Thus he made known his simple wants to the rest of us, and we were as gentle to him as a large family generally is to a lame duck. Because he was passionately devoted to softboiled eggs and called them "guggies," we nicknamed him "Guggy" or more briefly, "Gug." We taught him to fetch bread and molasses for us as we lay in bed on winter mornings, but his hand was clumsy and he never learned to cut a delicate slice of bread. He was, however, a good man on cookies, and with the instinct of a mouse, always found the cooky-tin, no matter where my mother hid it. I can see Gug now, nosing about in the semi-darkness of a frosty pantry, trailing the elusive hermit-cooky to its newest lair, and climbing the backstairs to share the spoil with his clamorous elders.

When he was five years old the truss was thrown away, just as the advertisement had prophesied; Guggy's vocabulary increased; he learned to stay awake till six-thirty in the evening, and under these encouraging auspices, we began to groom him, at the age of six, for the hurly-burly of the kindergarten.

The "childs' garden" was strong meat for Guggy. He liked it so well he stayed there three years. A younger sister Laura passed him flatfooted in his one hundred and fiftyfirst attempt to arrange some colored pegs in parallel rows. Guggy made no statement when Laura went ahead of him into the second grade. He was too much engrossed in the fascinating problem of arranging his pegs to bother about such piddling, extraneous matters as promotions. A year later, with the pegs still puzzling him, Guggy was sweetly kissed by his

kindergarten teacher and shov ward into the next grade.

For the next five years his pr was not rapid, but his demean untroubled, his deportment im ble. Because he was a big boy 1 given a seat in the back of the where he scrawled monstrous st hieroglyphics in his copyadded dozens of columns incor and could never locate any giv or river on the map. But h hugged for a darling by all his ers, and after formally repeati year's work, was duly thrus ward. His report-cards alway the same story: "Charles tries Is backward in arithmetic, sp and reading. Conduct exc P. S. Isn't there some way for get help at home?"

I remember trying to help with his geography one night supper. I was at that time a in high school and cherish superb contempt for the hig piggledy methods of grammar s pedagogy. I'd show this your how to get his studies! So I caded the parlor door to kee other kids out, and turned t young pupil.

"Now Guggy," I began br "we're going to talk about geogr All about rivers and oceans steppes

Guggy seemed intelligently cerned. "What's a steppe?" he a "Don't you know what a s is?"

"Nope. We haven't had st yet. We're only up to Europe.

"Well, there are steppes in Eu that is, if you consider Europ Asia one continent. Geologically are, you know. Hasn't your

eyed geography teacher ever told you anything about Eurasia?"

"She never said anything about it in our room. We're only on islands now; we had peninsulas when Miss Abbott was sick last week, but she's back now and we're having islands."

"Well then, name and locate some of the world's largest islands?"

After eighty seconds of silence, I was convinced that islands played no part in Guggy's universe. So to save myself further embarrassment, I rattled off a few names:

"Madagascar, Luzon, Corsicahere Guggy, just look at this map of the world. Anything you see surrounded by water, that's an island." Guggy scrutinized the map vaguely. After three minutes of inspection he paused to query;

"The green is water, isn't it?" "Yes, all the green is water." Another minute's scrutiny. Then he looked up amiably, and remarked; "Why, everything's an island ... I never knew that before."

22

Butter was not easier to influence than Guggy. He would accede to any suggestion, follow all advice, and pull chestnuts out of any one's fire. If the gang wanted to smoke or play rummy, Guggy had a cellar. If a pear-tree had to be looted, Guggy was boosted up the tree. So one day when Patrolman Dane forcibly accompanied by Master Guggy Ralston, rang the door-bell and asked for my mother, I suspected what had long seemed imminent: gullible Guggy had been gulled into some piece of rascality by his tribal betters. Anyway, there was the ponderous cop holding a pop-eyed Guggy by the scruff of his collar.

"What's Charley been up to?" asked my mother, sensing in the tableau all that she had ever secretly feared.

"This young man's been stealing bicycles, ma'am. Two's been stolen now in a week, and he admits he took both of them."

"What did you do with the bicycles, Charley?" asked my mother, tacitly admitting the charge.

No answer from Charley.

"He sold them to Jacobs, the second-hand bicycle man, that's what he did, and pretty clever he is too, for a twelve-year-old kid.”

"Where's the money, son?" asked mother, putting her arms around her chubby lame-duck's neck.

Stoic till now, Guggy began to blubber on her shoulder.

"I gave it to Squash and Simmy-
"How much was there?"
"Four dollars."

"How much did they give you back?"

"A dime."

"Where is it now?"

"I spent it on cigarettes." (Snuffles.) Then quieter: "And they made me sick, so I threw them away."

"So you see," concluded my mother, "you really aren't a great success as a robber-chief, are you?” Then turning to the patrolman: "Officer, we'll replace the bicycles and guarantee Charley's conduct in the future. Will that be satisfactory?"

"It'll be all right this time, ma'am, but I can tell you right now that if it happens again, it'll mean reform school and the probation officer."

"Do you hear that, Charley? Reform school and prison, perhaps. Promise me now that you won't steal any more bicycles, and that you

At the age of seventeen, Guggy found himself, four years behind his time, in high school. For eighteen months he struggled with the stiffer curriculum. Every day he brought home a half-dozen books, and every evening found him in his room, puzzling over the pages of his Latin grammar, or fruitlessly experimenting with the sides of an isosceles triangle. Side A might jolly well equal side B, and B might be patently less than C, but it never could occur to Guggy that this made A also less than C. He simply could not take the most elementary of mental hurdles. With all the good-will in the world he would rush up to the barrier and try to hurl himself over it, but not once in his whole academic career did he ever lift himself

across.

Most fellows so singularly unequipped for the scholastic racket would have tossed their books into the parlor grate, and taken a job in a broker's office. But Guggy, never. Hopelessly unable to fixate, retain or recall two ideas in sequence, he hungered and thirsted for academic fare. He would have been a notable success in some medieval monastery. His gentle stupidity would have charmed his confrères; his humility would have become proverbial; he would have run all the errands, lugged all the wood and then sat marveling at the learned debates among his more erudite brethren.

But humility and reverence we no avail in high school. After dismal failures in Latin and G etry, he was dropped, and was vised by the head-master to get with some nice clothing store.

For six months he took a "tel rary" job in a butcher shop, at dollars a week. Of this eight do he paid my mother three for b put fifty cents in the collection every Sunday at mass, clothed self like a college junior, walked with the girls and saved sixty do He was so regular in his Mo morning visitations to the bank we all thought he might be savi get married.

"What are you going to do your money?" I asked him day.

"Well," he began hesitantly had an idea that if I saved hundred dollars, that the Old might put another hundred wit and-well, I thought I might g Holton Academy for a year. do you think?"

"Good idea," I said, amazed a piety. "A year at Holton would top you off. Now if you wor summer, you'll have over a hun by September; I'll give you tw five and John'll give you twenty more. That, with the Old M hundred, ought to take you thr the first term."

He almost choked with happ at my approval. If I had settled thousand a year on him and his forever, he couldn't have wrung hand with more gratitude.

"Just think of it, Roger,” he "a year at Holton. The studies easier up there, and I can go ou foot-ball and debating. You'll

me some dope on debating this summer, won't you?"

"Sure, Guggy. You'd better begin reading the papers right now about the coal strike. That'll make a crackerjack subject for a debate next October."

So every night after that Guggy used to look for news about coalmines and strikes, but the difference between anthracite and bituminous was never quite clear to him.

23

That year at Holton was the happiest year Guggy will ever have. He played substitute guard on the the second-string freshman team, and actually started in the game against Saugus. He sent me a copy of the "Holton Helmet" with the account of the game written in chatty prepschool style, with two sentences heavily underlined. "Guggy Ralston played his usual sterling game at guard. After the first quarter he was supplanted by Chuck Wethers." The-time-we-played-Saugus prefaced his remarks for many years, and he always seemed pleased when any of us referred to him as "the sterling guard."

The debating coach sent him into the library to root out further information on the coal strike. Charley wrote me, asking for the dope and I scribbled a hasty survey of the situation and mailed it to him next day. But I could not bolster up his delivery by mail, and I think my sparse collection of data was not sufficient to win him a place on the team. No matter. He tried out for the class operetta, and his pleasant tenor voice secured him a minor part as a country swain. Whenever he came home he would sing us his

fractional solo part, and then eulogize "the wonderful voice of Joe Fleming, the guy that played the lead. You shoulda heard him that night." For a room-mate he was fortunate enough to secure the famous Coker Doyle. Coker was halfback on the freshman team, and used to lug Guggy around everywhere, soaking up Guggy's silent admiration and borrowing his quarters. Reportcards ran true to form. "Charles is trying very hard. Performance in English and mathematics not quite satisfactory. Deportment good. Recommendations: Outside tutoring might prove of assistance."

So between foot-ball and debating the autumn studies were all flunked, and when spring wore around another two hundred dollars was due on board and tuition. I quote from a letter written to me about this time, by Guggy himself:

"Dear Roger:

"I meant to write to you last week but our exams came just then and I was busy studying. I don't know how I came out yet. I think I passed English Lit. and History but I didn't hit the Latin very good. Say, who wrote "The Maltese Jew?" I said Shakspere, but I knew that wasn't right. Geometry and Chem sure are tough. They got a fellow from Tech up here teaching Lab. and he always asks a lot of questions you never had in class. Well I did the best I could but I was only half through the Chem when the bell rung.

"Last night Coker and me went to a dance at Slade, the girl's seminary across the river from Holton. We didn't get back till four G.M., but we sure had a grand time. Lots of sugar