Kenny by Leona Dalrymple

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KENNY

by

LEONA DALRYMPLE

Author of _Diane of the Green Van_, _The Lovable Meddler_

Illustrated by Joseph Pierre Nuyttens

The Reilly & Britton Co.
Chicago

Second Printing September 10, 1917

[Frontispiece: Joan]

CONTENTS

I Brian Rebels
II The Unsuccessful Parent
III In the Gay and Golden Weather
IV God's Green World of Spring
V At the Blast of a Horn
VI In the Garret
VII The Blossom Storm
VIII Joan
IX Adam Craig
X A Notebook
XI The Cabin in the Pines
XII Thraldom
XIII Kenny's Truth Crusade
XIV In Somebody's Boat
XV In Which Caliban Scores
XVI Tantrums
XVII Kenny Disappears
XVIII Brian Solves a Problem
XIX Samhain
XX The Chair by the Fire
XXI The Shadow of Death
XXII In the Cabin
XXIII A Miser's Will
XXIV Digging Dots
XXV Checkmate!
XXVI An Inspiration
XXVII Miser's Gold
XXVIII Kenny's Ward
XXIX The Studio Again
XXX Playtime
XXXI Fate Stabs
XXXII On Finlake Mountain
XXXIII In the Span of a Day
XXXIV A Face
XXXV The Penitent
XXXVI April
XXXVII Honeysuckle Days
XXXVIII Arcady Eludes a Seeker
XXXIX The Tension Snaps
XL The King of Youth
XLI When the Isle of Delight Receded
XLII The End of Kenny's Song

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Joan . . . . . . Frontispiece

He was sailing across, to romance he hoped, and surely to mystery

"'Tis Samhain, Adam," said Kenny, "the summer ending of the druids"

"I love you better than my life," Joan said, "and I may--may never--say
it again"

KENNY

CHAPTER I

BRIAN REBELS

"You needn't repeat it," said Brian with a flash of his quiet eyes.
"This time, Kenny, I mean to stay disinherited."

Kennicott O'Neill stared at his son and gasped. The note of permanency
in the chronic rite of disinheritance was startling. So was something
in the set of Brian's chin and the flush of anger burning steadily
beneath the dark of his skin. Moreover, his eyes, warmly Irish like
his father's, and ordinarily humorous and kind, remained unflinchingly
aggressive.

With the air of an outraged emperor, the older man strode across the
studio and rapped upon his neighbor's wall for arbitration.

"Garry may be in bed," said Brian,

"And he may not." It was much the same to Kenny.

He was a splendid figure--that Irishman. His gorgeous Persian slippers
curled at the toes and ended in a pair of scarlet heels. The
extraordinary mandarin combination of oriental magnificence and the
rags he affected for a bathrobe, hung from a pair of shoulders
noticeably broad and graceful. If he wore his frayed splendor with a
certain picturesque distinction, it was the way he did all things, even
his delightful brogue which was if anything a shade too mellifluous to
be wholly unaffected. What Kenny liked he kept if he could, even his
irresponsible youth and gayety.

Time had helped him there. His auburn hair was still bright and thick.
And his eyes were as blue and merry now as when with pagan reverence he
had tramped and sketched as a lad among the ruined altars of the druids.

He had meant to wither his son with continued dignity and calm. The
vagaries of Irish temper ordained otherwise. Kenny glanced at the
fragments of a statuette conspicuously rearranged on a Louis XV table
almost submerged in the chaotic disorder of the studio, and lost his
head.

"Look at that!" he flung out furiously.

Brian had already looked--with guilt--and regretted.

"I broke it--accidentally," he admitted.

"Accidentally! You flung a brush at it."

"I flung a brush across the studio," corrected Brian, "just after you
went out to pawn my shotgun."

"Damn the shotgun!"

"I can extend that same courtesy," reminded Brian, "to the statuette."

Things were going badly when the expected arbitrator rapped upon the
door, and losing ground, Kenny felt that he must needs dramatize his
parental right to authority for the benefit of Garry's ears and his own
pride.

"Silence!" he thundered, striding toward the door. He flung it back
with the air of a conqueror. His stage play fell rather flat. Garry
Rittenhouse, in bathrobe and slippers, confronted the pair with a look
of weary inquiry. He sometimes regretted that as a peacemaker he had
become an institution. Nobody said anything. Garry hunted cigarettes,
cleared a chair and sat down.

"It may or may not interest you two to know that I was in bed," he
began irritably. "I wish to Heaven you'd fight in union hours."

Brian was sorry and said so. Kenny, however, took immediate advantage
of Garry's attitude to sidetrack what he considered the preposterous
irrelevance of the shotgun, the one unessential thing in the studio,
and point with rising temper to the statuette. It had, alas! been a
birthday present from Ann Marvin, whose statuettes, fashionable and
satiric, were famous.

It was like Kenny to have a grievance. He was hardly ever without one.
But justification was rare indeed and he made the best of it. He said
all that was on his mind without restraint as to duration or intensity,
thunderstruck at Brian's white-hot response. For twenty minutes of
Irish fire and fury, Garry listened in amazement, sensing an
unaccustomed stubbornness in Brian's anger.

"Just a minute," said Garry, dazed. "Let's get down to brass tacks.
Who and what began it?"

They both told him.

"One at a time, please!" he begged. "I gather that you, Kenny, in need
of petty funds, went out to pawn Brian's shotgun. And you, Brian,
losing your temper, flung a brush across the studio and smashed a
valued statuette--"

Kenny chose indignantly to tell it all again and overshot the mark,
bringing Garry down upon him with a bark.

"Now, see here, Kenny," he interposed curtly, "that's enough. Brian's
usually sane and regular. It's by no means a criminal offense for him
to pick a row with you about his shotgun. And he didn't mean to smash
the statuette."

He waited for the voice of thunder in which Kenny, at a disadvantage,
would be sure to disinherit his son and, waiting, glanced a trifle
wryly at the littered studio. What Brian lost by chronic
disinheritance lay ever before the eye, particularly now when Kenny, in
one of his periods of insolvency, was posted downstairs for club debt
and Mrs. Haggerty's insular notions about credit had driven him to
certain frugal devices with the few handkerchiefs he owned, one of
which was spread upon the nearest window pane to dry.

Garry's disgusted inventory missed nothing: a prayer rug for which
Kenny had toured into the south of Persia and led an Arabian Nights'
existence with pursuing bandits whom, by some extraordinary twist of
genius, he had conciliated and painted; an illuminated manuscript in
Gaelic which he claimed had been used by a warrior to ransom a king;
chain armor, weapons of all kinds, climes and periods; an Alpine horn,
reminiscent of the summer Kenny had saved a young painter's life at the
risk of his own; some old masters, a cittern, a Chinese cheng with
tubes and reeds, an ancient psaltery with wires you struck with a
crooked stick that was always lost (Kenny when the mood was upon him
evolved weird music from them all), an Italian dulcimer, a Welsh crwth
that was unpronounceably interesting (some of the strings you twanged
with your thumb and some you played with a bow); Chinese, Japanese,
Indian vases, some alas! sufficiently small for utilitarian purposes,
Salviati glass, feather embroidery, carved chairs and a chest.

A prodigal display--Kenny in his shifting periods of affluence was
always prodigal--but there had never been cups enough with handles in
the littered closet, Garry recalled, until Brian inspired had bought
too many bouillon cups, figuring that one handle always would be left;
Kenny could not remember to buy a teapot when he could and made tea in
a chafing dish; and he had been known to serve highballs in vases.

Garry glanced expectantly at his host and found him but a blur of
oriental color in a film of smoke. As usual, when he was in a temper
or excited, he was smoking furiously. But the threat of disinheritance
was not forthcoming. If anything, the disinheritor was sulking. And
the eyes of the disinheritee were intelligent and disconcerting.

"Well?" said Garry, amazed.

"I've already been disinherited," explained Brian dryly. "Twice. And
I'm leaving tonight--for good."

Garry sat up.

"You mean?" demanded Kenny coldly.

"I mean," flung out Brian, "that I'm tired of it all. I'm sick to
death of painting sunsets."

Garry's startled glance sought and found a mediocre sunset on an easel.
Brian went in for sunsets. He said so himself with an inexplicable air
of weariness and disgust. He knew how to make them.

Kenny's glance too had found the sunset. It stood beside a landscape,
brilliant and unforgettable, of his own. Both men looked away. Brian
smiled.

"You see?" he said quietly.

"Sunsets!" stammered Kenny, perversely taking up the keynote of his
son's rebellion literally. "Sunsets! I warned you, Brian--"

"Sunsets," said Brian, "and everything else you put on canvas with
paint and brush. I can't paint. You know it. Garry knows it. I know
it. I've painted, Kenny, merely to please you. I've nothing more than
a commonplace skill whipped into shape by an art school. Aerial
battlefields--my sunsets--in more ways than one. I paint 'em because
they happen to be the thing in Nature that thrills me most. And when I
fire to a thing, most always I can manage somehow. You yourself have
engineered for me every profitable commission I've ever had. What's
more, Kenny, if ever once you'd put into real art the dreadful energy
I've put into my mediocrity--"

"You mean I'm lazy?" interrupted Kenny, bristling.

"Certainly not," said Brian with acid politeness. "You're merely
subject to periodic fits of indolence. You've said as much yourself."

It was irrefutable. Kenny, offended, brought his fist down upon the
table with a bang.

"I know precisely what you're going to say," cut in Brian. "I'm
ungrateful. I'm not. But it's misdirected generosity on your part,
Kenny. And I'm through. I'm tired," he added simply. "I want to live
my own life away from the things I can't do well. I'm tired of
drifting."

"And to-night?"

Brian flung out his hands.

"The last straw!" he said bitterly.

"You're meaning the shotgun, Brian?" demanded Kenny.

"I'm meaning the shotgun."

"What will you do?" interposed the peacemaker in the nick of time.

"I've done some free-lance reporting for John Whitaker," said Brian.
"I think he'll give me a big chance. He's interested." His voice--it
had in it at times a hint of Kenny's soft and captivating brogue--was
splendidly boyish and eager now. "Foreign perhaps or war. Maybe
Mexico. Anything so I can write the truth, Garry, the big truth that's
down so far you have to dig for it, the passion of humanness--the
humanness of unrest. I can't say it to-night. I can only feel it."

Alarmed by this time, Kenny came turbulently into the conversation and
abused John Whitaker for his son's defection. Brian, it was plain, had
been decoyed by bromidic tales of cub reporters and "record-smashing
beats." He contrasted art and journalism and found Brian indifferent
to his scorn.

"It isn't just Whitaker and the sunsets and the desire to exchange the
sham of my 'art' for the truth of something real," said Brian. "It's
everything. It's the studio here and things like--like the shotgun. I
hate the brilliant, disorderly hand-to-mouth sort of Bohemia, Kenny, in
which you seem to thrive. Either we have a lot of money or a lot of
debts--"

Garry nodded.

"I suppose," went on Brian wearily, "that my nature must demand an
orderly security in essentials. Plebeian, of course, but comfortable.
I mean, money in sufficient regularity, chairs you can sit down on
without looking first--" he shrugged.

Further detail and he would be drifting into deep water. Life with
Kenny, who borrowed as freely as he gave, entailed petty harassments
that could not be named.

"Things," finished Brian. "that are mine without a lock and key."

He had meant not to say it. Kenny struck his hand fiercely against the
table.

"You hear that, Garry?" he demanded with an indignant bid for support.
"You hear that? By the Lord Harry, Brian, it's damnable and indecent
to harp so upon the shotgun after smashing the statuette."

The circle was complete. They were back to Kenny's grievance. Brian
sighed.

"I wasn't thinking of the shotgun," he said. "There have been times,
Kenny, when I hadn't a collar left--"

"He's right," put in Garry with quick sympathy. "It's not just the
shotgun--"

"Garry, you shut up!" snapped Kenny, sweeping the fragments of Ann's
statuette into the table drawer and closing it with a bang.

"Please remember," reminded Garry, coldly, "that an established
privilege of mine, since I undertook this Hague stuff, is absolute
frankness."

"Br-r-r-r--"

"Who rapped for me?"

"Kenny did," said Brian.

"Any man," retorted Kenny bitterly, "may have a--a moment of lunacy. I
thought you were impartial."

"You mean," said Garry keenly, "that when you rapped you'd been
hypnotized by the justice of your own case and felt a little reckless."

Kenny drew himself up splendidly and glared at Garry through a cloud of
smoke.

"Piffle!" said Garry. "No stately stuff for me, Kenny, please. It's
late and I'm tired. I'll referee this thing in my own way. I
repeat--it's not just the shotgun. It's everything he owns."

"What for instance?" inquired Kenny, dangerously polite.

"His money, his clothes and his girls!" enumerated Garry brutally.
"You even pawned his fishing rods and golf clubs."

"I sent him a fern," said Kenny, affronted. "Did he even water it?
No!"

"I think I paid for it," said Brian.

"Has he ever given me the proper degree of respect. No! He calls
me--Kenny!"

Garry laughed aloud at the wrathful search for grievance. It was not
always easy to remember that Kenny had eloped at twenty with the young
wife who had died when his son was born; and that his son was
twenty-three.

"Go on," said Kenny. "Laugh your fool head off. I'm merely stating
facts."

"As for his tennis racquet," reminded Garry, and Kenny flushed.

It developed that of studio things the racquet and the shotgun had
seemed the least essential. And the need had been imperative.

"Nevertheless," interposed Garry, "they and a number of other things
you pawned were Brian's."

Moreover, reverting to the fishing rods and golf clubs, Kenny would
like to have them both remember that it had been winter and one can
redeem most anything by summer. He'd meant to. He honestly had.

"But you didn't," said Garry.

"Great God," thundered Kenny, "you're like a parrot." Fuming he
searched afield for cigarettes and found them at his elbow. A noise at
the open window behind him brought him to his feet with a nervous start.

"What's that? What's over there?" he demanded petulantly.

"Oh, it's only H-B," said Garry. "He's come down the fire-escape.
Mac's likely forgotten to chain him."

The honey-bear, kept secretly in a studio upstairs and christened "H-B"
to cloak his identity--for the club rules denied him hospitality--came
in with a jaunty air of confidence. At the sight of the three men he
turned tail and fled. Kenny speeded his departure with a bouillon cup
and felt better.

As for clothes, Kenny began with new dignity, he must remind them both
that he had more than Brian, if now and again he did forget a minor
essential and have to forage for it. He added with an air of rebuke
that Brian was welcome to anything he had, anything--to borrow, to wear
and to lose if he chose.

Brian received the offer with a glance of blank dismay and Garry with
difficulty repressed a smile. Kenny's fashionable wardrobe, portentous
in all truth, had an unmistakable air of originality about it at once
foreign and striking. There were times when he looked irresistibly
theatric and ducal.

Kenny repeated his willingness to lend his wardrobe.

"Of course you would," said Garry. "Though it's hardly the point and
difficult to remember when Brian is in a hurry and has to send out a
boy to buy him a collar."

In the matter of money, to take up another point, Kenny felt that his
son had a peculiar genius for always having money somewhere. Brian had
of necessity been saved considerable inconvenience by a tendency to
economy and resource. As usual, if anybody suffered it was Kenny.

"For 'tis myself, dear lad," he finished, "that runs the scale a bit.
Faith, I'm that impecunious at times I'm beside myself with fret and
worry."

Brian steeled himself against the disarming gentleness of the change of
mood. It was inevitably strategic. Wily and magnetic Kenny always had
his way. It was plain he thought to have it now with every instinct up
in arms at the thought of Brian's going.

"I've less genius, less debt and less money," conceded Brian, "but I've
a lot more capacity for worry and I'm tired of always being on my
guard. I'm tired of bookkeeping--"

"Bookkeeping!"

"Bookkeeping lies!" said Brian bluntly. "I've lied myself sometimes,
Kenny, to keep from denying a lie of yours."

The nature of the thrust was unexpected. Kenny changed color and
resented the hyper-critical word. To his mind it was neither filial
nor aesthetic.

"Lies!" he repeated indignantly, regarding his son with a look of
paralyzed inquiry. "Lies!"

"Lies!" insisted Brian. "You know precisely what I mean."

"I suppose, Kenny," said Garry fairly, "that a certain amount of
romancing is for you the wine of existence. Your wit's insistent and
if a thing presents itself, tempting and warmly colored, you can't
refuse it expression simply because it isn't true. You must make a
good story. I've sometimes thought you'd have a qualm or two of
conscience if you didn't, as if it's an artistic obligation you've
ignored--to delight somebody's ears, even for a moment. Perhaps you
don't realize how far afield you travel. But it's pretty hard on
Brian."

It was the thing, as Garry knew, that taxed Brian's patience to the
utmost, plunged him into grotesque dilemmas and kept him keyed to an
abnormal alertness of memory. Always his sense of loyalty revolted at
the notion of denying any tale that Kenny told.

Now Kenny's hurt stare left Brian unrepentant. He lost his temper
utterly. Thereafter he blazed out a hot-headed summary of book-keeping
that made his father gasp.

Kenny's air of conscious rectitude vanished. In an instant he was
defensive and excited, resenting the unexpected need of the one and the
distraction of the other. The sum of his episodic rambling on Brian's
tongue was appalling. He was willing to concede that his imagination
was wayward and romantic. But why in the name of Heaven must a
man--and an Irishman--justify the indiscretions of his wit? Well, the
lad had always had an unnatural trend for fact. Kenny remembered with
resentment the Irish fairies that even in his childhood Brian had been
unable to accept, excellent fairies with feet so big that in time of
storm they stood on their heads and used them for umbrellas!

Staggered by Brian's inflexible air of resolution, Kenny, his fingers
clenched in his hair, began another circle. He reverted to his
grievance. The quarrel this time was sharp and brief. Brian hated
repetitions. Hotly impenitent he flung out of the studio and slammed
his bedroom door, leaving Kenny dazed and defensive and utterly unable
to comprehend the twist of fate by which the dignity of his grievance
had been turned to disadvantage.

Garry glanced at the gray haze in the court beyond the window and rose.

"It's nearly daybreak," he said. "And I've a model coming at ten.
She's busy and I can't stall."

He left Kenny amazed and aggrieved at his desertion. Certainly in the
grip of untoward events, a man is entitled to someone with whom he can
talk it over.

Wakeful and nervous, Kenny smoked, raked his hair with his fingers and
brooded. Brian had been disinherited much too often to resent it all
at once to-night. As for the shotgun, that dispute or its equivalent
was certainly as normal a one as regularity could make it. And he had
related many a tale unhampered by fact that Brian had simply ignored.

"What on earth has got into the lad?" he wondered impatiently.

Ah, well, he was a good lad, clean-cut and fine, with Irish eyes and an
Irish temper like his father. Kenny forgot and forgave. Both were a
spontaneity of temperament. Brian and he would begin again. That was
always pleasant.

He strode remorsefully to Brian's door and knocked. There was no
answer. He knocked again. Ordinarily he would have flung back the
door with a show of temper. Penitential, he opened it with an air of
gentle forbearance. The room, which gave evidence of anger and hurried
packing, was empty, the door that opened into the corridor, ajar.

Brian was gone.

White and startled, Kenny unearthed the chafing dish and made himself
some coffee.

Brian, of course, would return in the morning, whistling and sane. He
would call something back in his big, pleasant voice to the elevator
man who worshipped him, and bang the studio door. The lad was not
given to such definite revolt. Besides, Brian, he must remember, was
an O'Neill, an Irishman and a son of his, an indisputable trio of good
fortune; as such he could be depended upon not to make an ass of
himself.

CHAPTER II

THE UNSUCCESSFUL PARENT

Kenny slept as he lived, with a genius for dreams and adventure. He
remembered moodily as he rose at noon that he had dreamed a
kaleidoscopic chase, precisely like a moving picture with himself a
star, in which, bolting through one taxi door and out another with a
shotgun in his hand, he had valiantly pursued a youth who had,
miraculously, found the crooked stick of the psaltery and stolen it.
The youth proved to be Brian. That part was reasonable enough. Brian
was the only one who could find the thing long enough to steal it.

It was not likely to be a day for work. That he felt righteously could
not be expected. Nevertheless, with hurt concession to certain talk of
indolence the night before, he donned a painter's smock and, filled
with a consciousness of tremendous energy to be expended in God's good
time, telephoned John Whitaker.

Yes, Brian had been there. Where he was now, where he would be,
Whitaker did not feel at liberty to divulge. Frankly he was pledged to
silence. Kenny willing, he would be up to dinner at six. He had a lot
to say.

Kenny banged the receiver into the hook in a blaze of temper, hurt and
unreasonable, and striding to the rear window flung it up to cool his
face. There were bouillon cups upon the sill. Bouillon cups!
Bouillon cups! Thunder-and-turf! There were bouillon cups everywhere.
Nobody but Brian would have bought so many handles. A future of
handles loomed drearily ahead. Brian could talk of disorder all he
chose. Half of it was bouillon cups. Bitterly resenting the reproach
they seemed to embody, stacked there upon the sill, Kenny passionately
desired to sweep them out of the window once and for all. The desire
of the moment, ever his doom, proved overpowering. The cups crashed
upon a roof below with prompt results. Kenny was appalled at the
number of heads that appeared at studio windows, the head of Sidney
Fahr among them, round-eyed and incredulous. Well, that part at least
was normal. Sid's face advertised a chronic distrust of his senses.

Moreover, when Pietro appeared after a round of alarmed inquiry, Kenny
perversely chose to be truthful about it, insisted that it was not
accidental and refused to be sorry. Afterward he admitted to Garry, it
was difficult to believe that one spontaneous ebullition of a nature
not untemperamental could provoke so much discussion, frivolous and
otherwise. The thing might grow so, he threatened sulkily, that he'd
leave the club.

As for the immediate present, Fate had saddled him again with an
afternoon of moody indolence. Certainly no Irishman with nerves strung
to an extraordinary pitch could work with Mike crawling snakily around
the lower roof intent upon china remnants whose freaks of shape seemed
to paralyze him into moments of agreeable interest. Kenny at four
refused an invitation to tea and waited in growing gloom for Reynolds,
a dealer who, prodded always into inconvenient promptness by Kenny's
needs, had promised to combine inspection of the members' exhibition in
the gallery downstairs with the delivery of a check. There were
critical possibilities if he did not appear.

Mike disappeared with the final fragment and Reynolds became the
grievance of the hour. Kenny, fuming aimlessly around the studio,
resorted desperately at last to an unfailing means of stimulus. He
made a careful toilet, donned a coat with a foreign looking waist-line,
rather high, and experimented with a new and picturesque stock that
fastened beneath his tie with a jeweled link. As six o'clock arrived
and Reynolds' defection became a thing assured, his attitude toward
John Whitaker underwent an imperative change. It would be impossible
now to greet him with hostile dignity. He had become a definite need.

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