'Hoh!' scoffed Mr Bayswater, 'how would they? They can't speak the King's English any better themselves. A leader, that's what that boy's going to be.'

Little Henry here broke one of his long silences. 'I liked the Easter party on the lawn best,' he confided to Mrs Harris. 'We had to 'unt Easter eggs that was hidden, and we had egg races on a spoon. Uncle Ike said I was the best of anybody, and some day I'd be a champion.'

'Did 'e now?' said Mrs Harris. 'That was nice. 'Oo did you say said that - Uncle Ike? 'Oo's Uncle Ike?'

'I dunno,' replied little Henry. ' 'E was a kind of bald-headed bloke, and a bit of all right. 'E knew I was from London right away.'

'He is referring to the President of the United States and the annual Easter party for the children of the members of the Diplomatic Corps on the White House lawn,' explained Mr Bayswater just a trifle loftily. 'Mr Eisenhower conducted the ceremonies personally. I stood that close to him meself,' lapsing again at the mere memory of the event. 'We exchanged a few words.'

'Lor' love yer - the two of yer 'ob-n.o.bbing with Presidents! I once was almost close enough to the Queen to touch - Christmas shopping at 'Arrods.'

The Rolls was purring - it seemed almost floating - over the steel and concrete tracery of the great Skyway over the Jersey marshes. In the distance, shining in the late afternoon spring sunshine, gleamed the turrets of Manhattan. The sun was caught by the finger tower atop the Empire State Building, glinted from the silvered steel spike terminating the Chrysler Building further uptown, more than a thousand feet above the street level, and sometimes was caught illuminating every window of the burnished walls of the R.C.A. and other buildings in mid-town New York, until they literally seemed on fire.

Mrs Harris feasted her eyes upon the distant spectacle before they plunged into the caverns of the Lincoln Tunnel and murmured, 'Coo, and I thought the Eiffel Tower was somefink!' She was thinking, Who would ever have thought that Ada Harris of five Willis Gardens, Battersea, would be sitting in a Rolls-Royce next to such a kind and elegant gentleman, a real, proper gent - Mr John Bayswater - looking with her own eyes upon such a sight as New York? Who would ever have thought that Ada Harris of five Willis Gardens, Battersea, would be sitting in a Rolls-Royce next to such a kind and elegant gentleman, a real, proper gent - Mr John Bayswater - looking with her own eyes upon such a sight as New York? And the greying little chauffeur was thinking, And the greying little chauffeur was thinking, Whoever would have thought that Mr John Bayswater, of Bayswater, would be watching the expression of delight and joy upon the face of a little transplanted London char as she gazed upon one of the grandest and most beautiful spectacles in the world, instead of keeping both eyes on the congested road, and his ears attuned only to the voices of his vehicle? Whoever would have thought that Mr John Bayswater, of Bayswater, would be watching the expression of delight and joy upon the face of a little transplanted London char as she gazed upon one of the grandest and most beautiful spectacles in the world, instead of keeping both eyes on the congested road, and his ears attuned only to the voices of his vehicle?

Mrs Harris had the chauffeur drop them for safety's sake at the corner of Madison Avenue, and as they said good bye and she expressed her thanks for the ride and the meal, Mr Bayswater was surprised to hear himself say, 'I don't suppose we'll be seeing you again.' And then added, 'Good luck with the nipper. I hope you find his parent. You might let us know - the Marquis will be interested.'

Mrs Harris said blithely, 'If you're ever up this way again, get on the blower - Sacramento 9-9900. We might go to the flicks at the Music 'All. It's me fyvourite plyce. Mrs b.u.t.terfield and me go every Thursday.'

'If you're ever in Washington, look us up,' said Mr Bayswater, 'the Marquis will be glad to see you.'

'Righty-ho.' She and little Henry stood on the corner and watched him merge into the stream of traffic. In the Rolls Mr Bayswater watched the two of them in his rear vision mirror until he came that that close to touching fenders with a Yellow Taxi, and the exchange of pleasantries with the driver thereof, who called him 'a Limey so-and-so', brought him back to the world of realities and Rolls-Royces. close to touching fenders with a Yellow Taxi, and the exchange of pleasantries with the driver thereof, who called him 'a Limey so-and-so', brought him back to the world of realities and Rolls-Royces.

Mrs Harris nipped into a drugstore and telephoned Mrs b.u.t.terfield to notify her of their arrival and ascertain whether the coast was clear.

THE introducing of little Henry Brown into the servants' quarters of the Schreiber penthouse at 650 Park Avenue presented no problems whatsoever. Mrs Harris simply escorted him thither through the delivery entrance on Sixty-ninth Street, up the service elevator, and through the back door of the huge flat. introducing of little Henry Brown into the servants' quarters of the Schreiber penthouse at 650 Park Avenue presented no problems whatsoever. Mrs Harris simply escorted him thither through the delivery entrance on Sixty-ninth Street, up the service elevator, and through the back door of the huge flat.

Nor would keeping him there have presented any insurmountable difficulties, trained as he was to self-effacement. The Schreibers never entered the servants' quarters; they never used the back way into the apartment. There was an abundance of food at all times in the huge freezing units and iceboxes into which a child would make no appreciable dent, and since he was a silent little chap he might have gone undetected there indefinitely, but for the unfortunate effect that his presence had upon the nerves of Mrs b.u.t.terfield.

Well accustomed by now to the ways of American supermarkets and delivery men, no longer frightened by the giantism of the city, delighted with the dollars she was ama.s.sing, Mrs b.u.t.terfield had allowed herself to be lulled into a sense of false security by the protracted absence of little Henry among the diplomatic set in Washington. Now his return and physical presence on the premises put an end to that. All her fears, nervous tremors, worries, and prophecies of doom and disaster returned, and in double measure, for there now seemed no possible solution, happy ending or, for that matter, an ending of any kind but disaster to the impa.s.se.

With the return of Mrs Harris from Kenosha, Wisconsin, bearing the ill tidings that this Brown was not the father of the boy, and her subsequent failure to make any progress in discovering him, Mrs b.u.t.terfield could see only execution or dungeons and durance vile staring them in the face. They had kidnapped a child in broad daylight in the streets of London, they had stowed him away on an ocean liner without paying his fare or keep, they had smuggled him into the United States of America - a capital crime, obviously, from all the precautions taken to prevent it - and now they were compounding all previous felonies by concealing him in the home of their employers. All of this could only end in a catastrophe of cataclysmic proportions.

Unhappily, it was in her cooking that the effects of strain began to show.

Salt and sugar were frequently interchanged; syrup and vinegar got themselves mysteriously mixed; souffles either fell flat or blew up; sauces curdled; and roasts burned. Her delicate sense of timing went completely to pot so that she could no longer produce a four-minute egg that was not either raw or stone hard. Her coffee grew watery, her toast cindery - she could not even make an honest British cup of tea any more.

As for the State banquets she was called upon to prepare for the entertainment of Mr Schreiber's celebrated employees, they beggared description, and people who once were eager to be asked to one of the Schreiber evenings now invented every kind of excuse to absent themselves from the horrors that appeared from Mrs b.u.t.terfield's kitchen.

Nor was it any satisfaction to Mrs Schreiber, to Mrs Harris, or to Mrs b.u.t.terfield that the only one who now seemed contented was Kentucky Claiborne, who when a particularly charred roast accompanied by a quite appallingly over-salted and over-thickened gravy appeared on the table, dug into it with both elbows flying, and bawled, 'Say Henrietta, this is more like it. Ah reckon you must have fired that old bag you had in the kitchen and got yourself a hundred per cent American cook. Ah'll just have some more of that there spoon gravy.'

Naturally, all this did not happen at once. It was a more gradual deterioration than as narrated, but with a sudden acceleration as Mrs b.u.t.terfield, herself aware of her sins of omission and commission, grew only the more nervous and upset, and of course from then on things worsened rapidly, until Mr Schreiber felt called upon to ask his wife, 'See here, Henrietta, what's got into that pair you dragged over here from London? We ain't had a decent meal in two weeks. How am I going to ask anybody here for dinner any more?'

Mrs Schreiber said, 'But everything was going along so fine at first - and she seemed to be such a wonderful cook.'

'Well, she ain't now,' said Mr Schreiber, 'and if I were you I'd get her out of here before she poisons someone.'

Mrs Schreiber pressed Mrs Harris on the subject, and for the first time found the little charwoman, of whom she was genuinely fond, not entirely cooperative. When she asked, 'Tell me, Mrs Harris, is anything wrong with Mrs b.u.t.terfield?' she got only a curious look and a reply, ' 'Oo, Violet? Not 'er. Violet's one of the best.'

Mrs Harris herself was in a fearful dilemma, torn between affection for and loyalty to her kind employer, and love and even greater loyalty to her lifelong friend, who she knew was making a walloping failure of her job, and likewise why. What was she to do, besides what she had been doing, which was to implore Mrs b.u.t.terfield to pull herself together, only to be deluged by a flood of reproaches for the fix they were in, and predictions of swift retribution? She herself had not been blind to the deterioration in Mrs b.u.t.terfield's art, and the dissatisfaction at the table, and was aware now of a new danger that threatened them, namely that Mr Schreiber would order them both deported to London. If this happened before the finding of little Henry's father, then they were really for it, for Mrs Harris had no illusions about being able to smuggle him back as they had brought him over. Such a caper would work once, but never twice.

Mrs Harris knew that she had erred in not taking Mrs Schreiber into her confidence immediately, and it fl.u.s.tered her to the point where she did the wrong thing. On top of giving Mrs Schreiber a short and unsatisfactory answer, she then went out for a walk on Park Avenue to try to think things out and keep the situation from deteriorating still further.

Thus she was not present when for the first time Mrs Schreiber invaded the labyrinth of her own servants' quarters to have a heart-to-heart talk with Mrs b.u.t.terfield, and if possible ascertain the psychological causes for her difficulties, and discovered little Henry in the servants' sitting-room, silently and happily packing away his five o'clock tiffin.

Mild surprise turned into genuine shock when suddenly Mrs Schreiber recognised him from all the photographs she had seen in the newspapers, and cried, 'Great heavens, it's the Duke! I mean; the Marquis - I mean the grandson of the French Amba.s.sador. What on earth is he doing here?'

Even though this catastrophic bolt of lightning had been long awaited by Mrs b.u.t.terfield, her reaction to it was what might have been expected: she fell upon her knees with her hands clasped, crying, 'Oh Lor', ma'am, don't send us to jyle! I'm only a poor widow with but a few more years to live.' And thereafter her sobs and weeping became so loud and uncontrollable that they penetrated into the front of the flat and brought Mr Schreiber hurrying to the scene.

For the first time, even little Henry lost some of his aplomb at seeing one of his protectresses reduced to a hysterical jelly, and he himself burst into wails of terror.

It was upon this tableau that Mrs Harris entered as she returned from her little promenade. She stood in the doorway for a moment contemplating the scene. 'Oh blimey,' she said, 'aren't we for it now.'

Mr Schreiber was likewise staggered at finding in a state bordering upon hysteria his c.o.c.kney cook, plus a young boy whose image not so long ago had decorated the front pages of the metropolitan press as the son of a lord and the grandson of the French Amba.s.sador to the United States.

Somehow, perhaps because she was the only member of the drama who seemed to be all calm and collected, he had a feeling that Mrs Harris might be at the bottom of this. Actually, at this point, contemplating the scene and aware of all its implications, the little char was doing her best to suppress a giggle. Her eyes were shining with wicked merriment and inner mirth, for she was of the breed that never cries over spilt milk - to the contrary, is more likely to laugh at it if there is a joke to be found. She had always known that eventually they must be caught, and now that it had happened she had no intention of panicking.

'Can you explain this, Mrs Harris?' Mr Schreiber demanded. 'You seem to be the only one left here with any wits about her. What the devil is the grandson of the French Amba.s.sador doing here? And what's got into Mrs b.u.t.terfield?'

'That's just what's the matter,' Mrs Harris replied, ' 'e ain't the grandson of the Marquis. That's what's got into 'er cooking. Poor thing, 'er nerves 'ave went.' She then addressed herself to the child and her friend saying, ' 'Ere, 'ere, 'Enry, stop yer bawling. Come on, Vi - pull yerself together.'

Thus admonished, both of them ceased their outcries instantly. Little Henry returned to his victuals, while Mrs b.u.t.terfield hauled herself to her feet and mopped her eyes with her ap.r.o.n.

'There now,' said Mrs Harris, 'that's better. Now maybe I'd better explain. This is little 'Enry Brown. He's a orphan, sort of. We brought 'im over with us from London to help 'im find 'is father.'

It was now Mr Schreiber's turn to look bewildered. 'Oh come on, Mrs Harris, this is the same kid whose picture was in the paper as the grandson of the Marquis.'

Mrs Schreiber said, 'I remarked at the time what a nice little boy he seemed to be.'

'That's because the Marquis took 'im through the Immigrytion for us,' elucidated Mrs Harris. 'Otherwise they wouldn't have let 'im in. The Marquis had to say something, so 'e used his nut. The Marquis is an old friend of mine - little 'Enry's been 'avin' the chicken-pox with him.'

Mr Schreiber's already slightly prominent eyes threatened to pop out of his head as he gasped, 'The Marquis smuggled him through for you? Do you mean to say- ?'

'Maybe I better explyne,' said Mrs Harris, and forthwith and with no further interruptions she launched into the story of little Henry, the lost GI father, the Gussets, and all that had taken place, including the abortive and unsuccessful visit to Kenosha, Wisconsin. 'And of course that's why poor Vi got so nervous 'er cooking went orf. There's none better than Vi when she's got nuffink on 'er mind.'

Mr Schreiber suddenly sat down in a chair and began to roar with laughter until the tears ran down his cheeks, while Mrs Schreiber went over, put her arms around little Henry and said, 'You poor dear. How very brave of you. You must have been terrified.'

In one of his rare moments of loquacity and warmth, and sparked by Mrs Schreiber's cuddle, little Henry said, 'Who - me? What of ?'

Mr Schreiber recovered sufficiently to say, 'And if that ain't the d.a.m.nedest thing I ever heard of ! The French Amba.s.sador stuck with the kid and has to say it's his grandson. You know you could have got into serious trouble with this, don't you? And still can if they find out about the kid.'

'That's what I've been lying awake nights thinking about,' confessed Mrs Harris. 'It would have been easy as wink if that Mr Brown at Kenosha had been 'is father - a father's got the right to have 'is own son in 'is own country, ain't 'e? But he wasn't.'

'Well, what are you going to do now?' asked Mr Schreiber.

Mrs Harris looked at him gloomily and did not reply, for the simple reason that she did not know.

'Why can't he stay here with us until Mrs Harris locates his father?' said Mrs Schreiber, and gave the child another hug, and received one in return - a sudden outburst of spontaneous affection which thrilled her heart. 'n.o.body need know. He's such a dear little boy.'

Mrs b.u.t.terfield waddled over to Mrs Schreiber, twisting a corner of her ap.r.o.n. 'Oh ma'am, if you only could,' she said, 'I'd cook me 'eart out for yer.'

Mr Schreiber, whose face had been expressing considerable doubts as to the wisdom of such a course, brightened visibly as at least one solution to what had become a problem dawned, and said to Henry, 'Come here, sonny.' The boy arose, went over and stood in front of the seat of Mr Schreiber and looked him straight and unabashedly in the eye.

'How old are you, sonny?'

'Eight, sir.'

'Sir! That's a good beginning. Where did you learn that?'

'Auntie Ada taught me.'

'So you can learn? That's good. Are you glad Mrs Harris brought you away from London?'

With his large eyes bent upon Mrs Schreiber little Henry breathed a heartfelt sigh and replied, 'Not arf.'

'Would you like to live in America?'

Little Henry had the right answer here too. 'Cor,' he said, ' 'oo wouldn't?'

'Do you think you could learn to play baseball?'

Apparently little Henry had been experimenting in Washington. 'Ho,' he scoffed, 'anybody who can play cricket can 'it a baseball. I knocked one for six - only you call it a 'ome run 'ere.'

'Say,' said Mr Schreiber, now genuinely interested, 'that's good. Maybe we can make a ball player out of him.'

It had taken slightly longer, but there was that wonderful p.r.o.noun 'we' again. Mr Schreiber had become a member of the firm. He said to the boy, 'What about your father? I guess you're pretty anxious to find him, eh?'

To this little Henry did not reply, but stood there silently regarding Mr Schreiber out of eyes that only shortly before then had reflected little else than misery and unhappiness. Since he had never known a real father he could not genuinely form a concept of what one would be like, except that if it was anything like Mr Gusset he would rather not. Still, everybody was making such a fuss and trying so hard to find this parent that he felt he had best not be impolite on the subject, so instead of answering the question he said finally, 'You're OK, guv'ner, I like you.'

Mr Schreiber's round face flushed with pleasure and he patted the boy on the shoulder. 'Well, well,' he said, 'we'll have to see what we can do. In the meantime you can stay here with Mrs Harris and Mrs b.u.t.terfield.' He turned to Mrs Harris, 'Just how far have you got locating the boy's father?'

Mrs Harris told him how, foolishly, Mr Brown of Kenosha, Wisconsin, had been the only egg in her basket, and now that it had been broken she was at a loss as to how to continue. She showed him her official letter from the Air Force demanding to know which George Brown she referred to of the 453 who at one time or another had been in the Service, and asking to know his birthplace, birthday, serial number, date of enlistment, date of discharge, places of service abroad, at home, etc.

Mr Schreiber looked at the formidable doc.u.ment and scoffed, 'Huh, those guys couldn't find anyone if he was right under their noses. Just you leave it to me. I got a real organisation. We got distribution branches in every big city in the U.S.A. If we can't turn him up for you, n.o.body can. What did you say his name was? And have you got any other dope on him - where he was stationed, maybe, or how old he was at the time of his marriage, or any other thing that would help us?'

Mrs Harris shamefacedly had to admit that she could offer no more than that his name was George Brown, he had been an American airman stationed at an American air base in England sometime in 1951, and that he had married a waitress by the name of Pansy Cott, who had borne him little Henry, refused to accompany him to America, was divorced by Mr Brown, had remarried and vanished. As she revealed the paucity of these details, Mrs Harris became even more aware and further ashamed of the manner in which she had let her enthusiasm carry her away and handled the affair. 'Lumme,' she said, 'I've played the fool, 'aven't I? Wicked, that's what I've been. If I was you I'd send us all packing and 'ave done with it.'

Mrs Schreiber protested, 'I think what you've done is absolutely wonderful, Mrs Harris. Don't, you think so, Joel? n.o.body else could have.'

Mr Schreiber made a small movement of his head and shoulders which indicated a doubtful but not antagonistic 'Well,' and then said, 'Sure ain't much to go on is there? But if anyone can find this feller, our organisation can.' To little Henry he said, 'OK, sonny. Tomorrow is Sunday. We'll get a baseball bat, ball, and glove and go in Central Park and see if you can hit a home run off me. I used to be a pretty good pitcher when I was a kid.'

IT was shortly before one of Mrs Schreiber's social-business dinners that Kentucky Claiborne definitely set the cap on to the loathing that Mrs Harris had come to entertain for him and made it an undying and implacable affair. was shortly before one of Mrs Schreiber's social-business dinners that Kentucky Claiborne definitely set the cap on to the loathing that Mrs Harris had come to entertain for him and made it an undying and implacable affair.

He had arrived, as usual, unkempt and unwashed in his blue jeans, cowboy boots, and too-fragrant leather jacket, but this time he had turned up an hour before the scheduled time, and for two reasons: one was that he liked to tank up early before the drinks were slowed down to being pa.s.sed one at a time, and the other was that he wished to tune up his guitar at the Schreiber piano, for Mr Schreiber was entertaining some important distributors and heads of television networks and had persuaded Kentucky to sing after supper.

Kentucky was a 'Bourbon and Branch' man, and very little of the latter. After four tumblersful of 'Old Grand-pappy' that were more than half neat, he tuned up his instrument, tw.a.n.ging a half a dozen chords, and launched into a ballad of love and death among the feudin' Hatfields and McCoys. Halfway through he looked up to find himself being stared at by a small boy with a slightly too-large head and large, interested and intelligent eyes.

Kentucky paused in the midst of the blow-down of a whole pa.s.sel of Hatfields at the hands of McCoys and their rifles and said, 'Beat it, bub.'

Little Henry, surprised rather than hurt, said, 'What for? Why can't I stay 'ere and listen?'

'Because I said beat it, bub, that's why.' And then, as his ear suddenly reminded him of something, said, 'Say, ain't that Limey talk? Are you a Limey?'

Little Henry knew well enough what a Limey was, and was proud of it. He looked Kentucky Claiborne in the eye and said, 'You're b.l.o.o.d.y well right I am - and what's it to you?'

'What's it to me?' said Kentucky Claiborne with what little Henry should have recognised as a dangerous amiability. 'Why, it's just that if there's anything I hate worse than n.i.g.g.e.r talk, it's Limey talk. And if there's anything I hate more than n.i.g.g.e.rs, it's Limeys. I told you to beat it, bub,' and he thereupon leaned over and slapped little Henry on the side of the head hard, sending him spinning. Almost by reflex little Henry released his old-time Gusset wail, and instinctively, to drown out the sound, Kentucky launched into the next stanza in which avenging Hatfields now slaughtered McCoys.

And in the pantry where Mrs Harris was helping to lay out canapes canapes, the little char could hardly believe her ears, and for a moment she thought that she was back in her own flat at number five Willis Gardens, Battersea, listening to the wireless and having tea with Mrs b.u.t.terfield, for penetrating to her ears had been the caterwauling of Kentucky Claiborne, then a thump and the sound of a blow, the wailing of a hurt child, followed by music up forte crescendo forte crescendo. Then she realised where she actually was, and what must have happened, though she could not believe it, and went charging out of the pantry and into the music room to find a weeping Henry with one side of his face scarlet from the blow, and a laughing Kentucky Claiborne tw.a.n.ging his guitar.

He stopped when he saw Mrs Harris and said, 'Ah tol' the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d to beat it, but he's got wax in his ears, so Ah had to clout him one. Git him out of here - Ah'm practisin'.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y everything!' raged Mrs Harris. And then picturesquely added thereto, 'You filthy brute to strike an 'armless child. You touch 'im again and I'll scratch yer eyes out.'

Kentucky smiled his quiet, dangerous smile, and took hold of his instrument by the neck with both hands. 'G.o.ddam,' he said, 'if this house just ain't filled with Limeys. Ah just tol' this kid if there's anything Ah hates worse'n a n.i.g.g.e.r it's a Limey. Git outta here before I bust this geetar over yoh' haid.'

Mrs Harris was no coward, but neither was she a fool. In her varied life in London she had come up against plenty of drunks, ruffians, and bad actors, and knew a dangerous man when she saw one. Therefore, she used her common sense, collected little Henry to her and went out.

Once in the safety of the servants' quarters she soothed him, bathed his face in cold water, and said, 'There, there, dearie, never you mind that brute. Ada 'Arris never forgets. It may take a week, it may take a month, it may take a year - but we'll pay 'im orf for that. 'Ittin' a defenceless child for being English!'

Had Mrs Harris kept a ledger on her vendettas it would have been noted that there were none that had not been liquidated long before the time she had allotted. Kentucky Claiborne had got himself into her black book, for, in Mrs Harris's opinion, the crime was unpardonable, and he was going to pay for it - somehow, sometime. His goose was as good as cooked.

UP to this time, due to business in hand, worry over little Henry and the Marquis, and the exigencies of her duties, namely to help Mrs Schreiber put her house in order and get it running properly, Mrs Harris's vista of New York after those two breathtaking approaches was limited to the broad valley of Park Avenue with its towering apartment houses on either side and the endless twoway stream of traffic obeying the stop and go of the red and green lights day and night. That, with the shops a block east on Lexington Avenue, and one trip to Radio City Music Hall with Mrs b.u.t.terfield, had been the extent of her contact with Manhattan. to this time, due to business in hand, worry over little Henry and the Marquis, and the exigencies of her duties, namely to help Mrs Schreiber put her house in order and get it running properly, Mrs Harris's vista of New York after those two breathtaking approaches was limited to the broad valley of Park Avenue with its towering apartment houses on either side and the endless twoway stream of traffic obeying the stop and go of the red and green lights day and night. That, with the shops a block east on Lexington Avenue, and one trip to Radio City Music Hall with Mrs b.u.t.terfield, had been the extent of her contact with Manhattan.

Because she was busy and preoccupied, and everything was so changed and different from what she had been accustomed to, she had not yet had time to be overwhelmed by it. But now all this was to be altered. It was the George Browns who were to introduce Mrs Harris to that incredible Babylon and Metropolis known as Greater New York.

It came about through the fact that there was now an interim period of comparative peace, with little Henry integrated into the servants' quarters of the penthouse while the far-flung network of the branch offices of North American delved into the past of the George Browns of their community in an effort to locate the missing father.

Although he slept in the room with Mrs Harris and took his meals with her and Mrs b.u.t.terfield, little Henry was actually a good deal more at large in the Schreibers' apartment. He was allowed to browse in the library, and began to read omnivorously. Mrs Schreiber every so often would take him shopping with her or to an afternoon movie, while it became an invariable Sunday morning ritual that he and Mr Schreiber would repair to the Sheep Meadow in Central Park with ball, bat, and glove, where little Henry, who had an eye like an eagle and a superb sense of timing, would lash sucker pitches to all corners of the lot for Mr Schreiber to chase. This was excellent for Mr Schreiber's health, and very good for his disposition as well. Afterwards they might feed the monkeys in the Zoo or roam through the Rambles, or engage a rowboat on the lake and paddle about. Man and boy quickly formed an engaging friendship.

Thus relieved of most of the actual care of the boy, and with more time on her hands since she acted now more in an advisory capacity to the staff she had helped Mrs Schreiber carefully to select, Mrs Harris came to the sudden realisation that she was no longer pulling her weight in the search for the father of little Henry.

It was all very well for Mr Schreiber to say that if the man could be found his organisation would do the job, but after all the main reason for coming to America was to conduct this search herself, a search she had once somewhat pridefully stated she would bring to a successful conclusion.

She remembered the ma.s.sive conviction she had felt that if only she could get to America she would solve little Henry's problems. Well, here she was in America, living off the fat of the land, and slacking while somebody else looked to the job that she herself had been so confident of doing. The least she could do was to investigate the Browns of New York.

'Go to work, Ada 'Arris,' she said to herself, and thereafter on her afternoons and evenings off, and in every moment of her spare time she initiated a systematic run-through of the Geo. and G. Browns listed in the telephone directories of Manhattan, Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, and Richmond.