“Come here, my boy,” he said very kindly.
“It’s all right,” remarked Mr. Gilroy, encouragingly. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Eugene moved into the presence.
“And what is your name, young man?” said Simon with his beautiful devil’s smile.
“Eugene.”
“That’s a very fine name,” said Simon. “Always try to live up to it.” He thrust his hand carelessly and magnificently into his coat pocket, drawing out under the boy’s astonished eyes, a handful of shining five— and ten-cent pieces.
“Always be good to the birds, my boy,” said Simon, and he poured the money into Eugene’s cupped hands.
Every one looked doubtfully at Mr. Gilroy.
“Oh, that’s all right!” said Mr. Gilroy cheerfully. “He’ll never miss it. There’s lots more where that came from.”
“He’s a mul-tye-millionaire,” Mr. Flannagan explained proudly. “We give him four or five dollars in small change every morning just to throw away.”
Simon caught sight of Gant for the first time.
“Look out for the Stingaree,” he cried. “Remember the Maine.”
“I tell you what,” said Eliza laughing. “He’s not so crazy as you think.”
’That’s right, “ said Mr. Gilroy, noting Gant’s grin.”The Stingaree’s a fish. They have them in Florida."
“Don’t forget the birds, my friends,” said Simon, going out with his companions. “Be good to the birds.”
They became very fond of him. Somehow he fitted into the pattern of their life. None of them was uncomfortable in the presence of madness. In the flowering darkness of Spring, prisoned in a room, his satanic laughter burst suddenly out: Eugene listened, thrilled, and slept, unable to forget the smile of dark flowering evil, the loose pocket chinking heavily with coins.
Night, the myriad rustle of tiny wings. Heard lapping water of the inland seas.
—And the air will be filled with warm-throated plum-dropping bird— notes. He was almost twelve. He was done with childhood.
