temperament for it in the long run.
“Tell us your story.” Whit interrupted my thoughts. “What’s it about?”
Ah yes, the story I’d promised in order to get them to write one for me. I’d only
scribbled a start, but as long as the boys didn’t ask to read it, I could extemporize.
“All right. It’s a mystery concerning a highwayman called Bloody Bones. Are you
certain you won’t be too frightened?”
Two heads shook in unison and four blue eyes riveted on me like bright tacks.
“If you’re certain. I don’t want anyone having nightmares later.”
“We won’t. Nothing scares us. Not after…” Whit cut himself short, and Clive
jabbed him in the side with an elbow.
Now that was interesting. I wanted to press for more information, but any fool knows asking a child questions only makes them close up like little clam shells. I’d have to weasel my way into Whit’s confidence.
“Very well, then. I can see you’re two quite grown-up lads, ready to hear even the most vile and gory of stories. Harken, then, to the tale of Bloody Bones and the Nightmare Hearse .”
I put on my best recitation voice and began the story, which had percolated in my
mind for some time. I’d planned to write and submit to one of the pulp magazines but somehow never found the time. Fear of not being good enough to be accepted even by the cheapest rag kept me from starting the project. But now I’d jotted down a beginning at last, I found I enjoyed writing, and my story was certainly no worse than the sensational drivel I’d read in the penny dreadfuls.
The boys sat at the table, chins resting on their arms, listening intently. It didn’t take long for me to tell the part I’d already written and begin freely spinning the tale to its dramatic conclusion. By the time I reached the climax in which the highwayman with the heart of gold rushes to outrace the devil’s hearse and save the fair maiden from her deadly fate, I was on my feet, describing the action with hands as well as voice. When the round-eyed boys appeared a little too caught up in the scary chase, I mimicked riding a horse, which made them both laugh.
Just as the chase reached a fever pitch, with Bloody Bones forced off the road and crossing a gully, I glanced up to see a more frightening sight than the devil himself standing in the schoolroom door.
Sir Richard leaned against the frame, arms crossed. His dark hair was windblown
and his face flushed. Coupled with the breeches and tall boots, his appearance suggested he’d just been riding.
I faltered, forgetting my place in the story, and the boys looked to see what had
caught my attention. Their reaction was like two turtles snapping heads and limbs back inside their shells. The giggles died in their throats, and their expressions smoothed into blankness. They got up from their chairs as if ready to sidle away, but there was no place to go since their father stood in the doorway.
For a moment, we all remained in tableau, unable to move or speak. Then Sir
Richard inclined his head. “Go on. Finish the story.”
I could hardly deny my employer’s direct request, but my tale limped to a rather
pathetic conclusion. My heart was no longer in the telling of how the highwayman
outwitted the devil and won the heart of the lady far above his station. Nor did I have the attention of my audience. The boys shifted from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable in their father’s presence. Why did they seem to fear him so? I couldn’t help but resurrect my first guess that he had hurt or threatened them in some way. But I could hardly reconcile that with my other impressions of him. When he’d said he couldn’t bear to send his sons to boarding school while they still mourned the loss of their mother, I’d been convinced he cared.
Now he cast his gaze on one boy, then the other. “Whitney. Clive. I hope you’re
behaving well for Mr. Cowrie.”
Neither answered, shuffling their feet and gazing down
“Tell us your story.” Whit interrupted my thoughts. “What’s it about?”
Ah yes, the story I’d promised in order to get them to write one for me. I’d only
scribbled a start, but as long as the boys didn’t ask to read it, I could extemporize.
“All right. It’s a mystery concerning a highwayman called Bloody Bones. Are you
certain you won’t be too frightened?”
Two heads shook in unison and four blue eyes riveted on me like bright tacks.
“If you’re certain. I don’t want anyone having nightmares later.”
“We won’t. Nothing scares us. Not after…” Whit cut himself short, and Clive
jabbed him in the side with an elbow.
Now that was interesting. I wanted to press for more information, but any fool knows asking a child questions only makes them close up like little clam shells. I’d have to weasel my way into Whit’s confidence.
“Very well, then. I can see you’re two quite grown-up lads, ready to hear even the most vile and gory of stories. Harken, then, to the tale of Bloody Bones and the Nightmare Hearse .”
I put on my best recitation voice and began the story, which had percolated in my
mind for some time. I’d planned to write and submit to one of the pulp magazines but somehow never found the time. Fear of not being good enough to be accepted even by the cheapest rag kept me from starting the project. But now I’d jotted down a beginning at last, I found I enjoyed writing, and my story was certainly no worse than the sensational drivel I’d read in the penny dreadfuls.
The boys sat at the table, chins resting on their arms, listening intently. It didn’t take long for me to tell the part I’d already written and begin freely spinning the tale to its dramatic conclusion. By the time I reached the climax in which the highwayman with the heart of gold rushes to outrace the devil’s hearse and save the fair maiden from her deadly fate, I was on my feet, describing the action with hands as well as voice. When the round-eyed boys appeared a little too caught up in the scary chase, I mimicked riding a horse, which made them both laugh.
Just as the chase reached a fever pitch, with Bloody Bones forced off the road and crossing a gully, I glanced up to see a more frightening sight than the devil himself standing in the schoolroom door.
Sir Richard leaned against the frame, arms crossed. His dark hair was windblown
and his face flushed. Coupled with the breeches and tall boots, his appearance suggested he’d just been riding.
I faltered, forgetting my place in the story, and the boys looked to see what had
caught my attention. Their reaction was like two turtles snapping heads and limbs back inside their shells. The giggles died in their throats, and their expressions smoothed into blankness. They got up from their chairs as if ready to sidle away, but there was no place to go since their father stood in the doorway.
For a moment, we all remained in tableau, unable to move or speak. Then Sir
Richard inclined his head. “Go on. Finish the story.”
I could hardly deny my employer’s direct request, but my tale limped to a rather
pathetic conclusion. My heart was no longer in the telling of how the highwayman
outwitted the devil and won the heart of the lady far above his station. Nor did I have the attention of my audience. The boys shifted from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable in their father’s presence. Why did they seem to fear him so? I couldn’t help but resurrect my first guess that he had hurt or threatened them in some way. But I could hardly reconcile that with my other impressions of him. When he’d said he couldn’t bear to send his sons to boarding school while they still mourned the loss of their mother, I’d been convinced he cared.
Now he cast his gaze on one boy, then the other. “Whitney. Clive. I hope you’re
behaving well for Mr. Cowrie.”
Neither answered, shuffling their feet and gazing down
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