A busy little man was David Lannarck in the week that followed. With a horse to break and a speech to make, the time was fully occupied. The colt was quartered at the Gillis barn. Davy stayed with the colt. Of mornings, Landy assisted with the colt’s grooming and education. His white mane and tail were washed and brushed and his red coat fairly shone from the attention given. Landy rasped his feet to evenness and cautioned that he would have to be shod if used on hard-surfaced roads. “Potter can shoe him all right,” he explained, “but we’ll have to send an order for a set of little shoes to fit.”

The morning rides were usually on the rather level roadway that led up to Pinnacle Point, but there were sidetrips down ill-defined paths to the little creeks. Landy sometimes went along to advise as to road gaits. The Gillis dogs were constant companions. In fact, since the night of Davy’s arrival they waited around until he made his appearance and followed him constantly. Except for the fact that he was scheduled to make a public appearance at Adot next Saturday night, David Lannarck was now enjoying the rest and joys that he had dreamed of and planned when he was oppressed by the mob.

“I am not writing out a speech,” Davy explained to Mrs. Gillis as he bent over the pad of paper, pencil in hand. “I am just jotting down some incidents of circus life that the public might want to know. This girl over at the B-line My, oh, my, but she’s got a compelling line of chatter. If she would do the ballyhoo for a Kid Show, she would pack ’em in to bust down the sidewalls. Now this girl said I was to talk about midgets and circuses. What I know about midgets and circuses would fill two books. My problem is to leave out the commonplace routine and tell ‘inside stuff.’”

Mrs. Gillis had cleared a side table where Davy, in his high chair, could jot down the items that he would use in his talk. It was while he was thus engaged of afternoons and evenings that Mrs. Gillis heard the life story of the only midget she had ever known.

“My name wasn’t always Lannarck,” Davy explained one afternoon when Mrs. Gillis detailed something of her ancestry and early childhood. “My name was O’Rahan, and I was christened Daniel. I am Irish both sides. My Dad was a young, happy-go-lucky Irish lad, a hard worker, a free liver, and surely improvident. Foot-loose and free he joined a party in the rush to the Klondike. Three years later he came back with enough money to fill a pad saddle. And they took it away from him as fast as he had accumulated it.

“He met my mother, Ellen Monyhan, at a party, and he was as speedy at courting as he was at spending. They were married but a short while when the financial crash came. He was ashamed and humiliated but not beaten. He wanted another try at this fascinating game. He went back to the Klondike and to his death at sea.

“I was born in a hospital in Springfield. My young, heartbroken mother died there. There were no relatives nearer than cousins. In due time I was committed to an orphanage. I have no memory of either parent and my information concerning them is meager and second hand. Now this orphanage was well conducted, but it wasn’t a home; it was an institution. With anywhere from thirty to sixty children to care for, it lacked the personal equation. It was mass production you did things by rote, en-masse no individuality. But I have no complaint. As a babe and child I was well-fed and clothed, in a uniform common to all.

“And then I started to school along with all the others. But something was happening to me that did not happen to the others. I quit growing. Mentally I was like the others kept up with my grades but I never grew taller than thirty-two inches and never weighed more than thirty-eight pounds. Other children would shoot up like corn stalks, but I stayed right where I had been in the months and years past.

“To me, it was a heart breaking disclosure. I wanted to play ball, to make the team, only to find that as the slow months crept on, I was assigned to the playground of the little kids, babes, toddlers. The balls, bats, mitts, and other playthings were too big for me. But I kept up with my classes in school and maybe the disappointments in sports urged me to win somewhere else. I won the eighth-grade prize in arithmetic and mechanical drawing. And then came high school, and the great disaster, quickly followed by an entrance into an Orphan’s Heaven a home in a private family. In the shifting personnel at the orphanage, there were fewer high-school pupils. We went to a different building over different streets. It was no doubt a singular sight to the residents to see a midget with six-footers, but it was just that way. And it must have been a singular sight to Loron Usark, a big childish lout that lived on Spruce Street. We would pass the end of the alley back of his house and he was out there every day to watch us go by. Now this Loron was too weak, mentally, for school. Ordered around by everybody and pestered and teased by many, the moronic-minded will seek a victim that he can abuse and bend to his own will, and this Loron party was on the lookout. One day he caught me tagging along behind the others. He grabbed me and would have beaten me, but my companions rescued me. After that, I had to be on the lookout. I was marked for slaughter by this fool.

“Mrs. Gillis,” Davy changed his tone of voice to a deeper bass, as was his wont when he desired to impress a listener. He shook his pencil at his deeply interested audience of one. “Mrs. Gillis, I’ve seen a lot of people in my time. Except for old-time circus people and theatrical troopers, I’ve seen a million more than my share. And you can set this down on your mental calendar as an established truth: whenever you see a Big One taunting a Little One, you can set him down as a big coward. And, whenever you see a Dub kidding a Lout, you can be assured that the dub is trying to lift himself above a similar rating.

“Well, this Loron lout finally got me,” said Davy, resuming the thread of his life story. “I was on my way back to the orphanage for a book and as I passed the alley he swept me down. They were good sidewalks out there, else he would have broken them in bits as he pounded my head on ’em. He kicked when he could and struck as often as he cared. His exultant cries must have attracted attention, for I was past even an outcry. Finally a lady rushed out of the nearby house and came to the rescue. The lout ran, of course. I stayed put. I couldn’t do anything else. The lady gathered me up, carried me into the house, laid me on a couch as I passed out entirely.

“When I came to, a doctor had been there to patch me up and pass judgment on my chances. He had washed off a lot of blood, plastered my cheek, clipped my hair to plaster some more places, eased some body welts, and announced that no bones had been broken. I was in a bed, most of my clothing had been removed, and the lady was offering me a drink of water. I took it.

“Mrs. Gillis,” here Davy gave his voice its lowest pitch, “Mrs. Gillis, that woman was Mrs. Sarah Wentworth Lannarck, and I know you won’t condemn me or be jealous when I say that she was the kindest, most considerate woman that ever drew the breath of life. There have been a lot of noble women on this troubled earth, doing what they could to ease pain, to keep down strife, and to make the world a better place in which to live. They are all worthy of our praise, but to me, Mrs. Lannarck is sainted, and apart from the rest. Well, the rest of the story is in happier settings and more readable chapters,” said Davy, as he noted that Mrs. Gillis was somewhat affected by the recital. “I really suspect that you would know more about these conditions than I. Personally, I think all women want to manage a home, want to boss the inmates. If there are no children, then they manage the men-folk, or the household pets. And I was Mrs. Lannarck’s pet. She used me as a substitute for the children that never came into her life. I was little; I was injured; I was a fit object of her suppressed affections.

“She telephoned Mrs. Philpott, matron at the orphanage, and when she called to see me, Mrs. Lannarck arranged to care for me until I was well. She explained the whole affair to Mr. Lannarck, when he came home to luncheon and that big, grave, silent man accepted her statements without comment. Sick as I was, I heard all this and I too, made some resolutions. I was not going to miss this chance of having a home, and a mother. The very next morning I offered to get up and help her do the dishes. She laughed like a girl, and vetoed my offer. In a day or two I limbered up enough to get into my clothes and I puttered around, offering to do things. My help was declined, but I could see that it had the right effect.

“I didn’t go to school for a few days. My face and head were still in bandages. The story of the attack was in the newspaper and the civil authorities committed the moron to an institution for the feeble-minded. Some of the orphan kids visited me and I got them to bring my little set of drawing tools. I was tinkering with these when Mister Lannarck came in. He looked at some of my sketches and asked if I could draft a plan in true proportions. I told him I thought I could, if I had the correct measurements. He put on his coat and left.

“Now Mr. Lannarck was a carpenter-contractor. Not a big one, with an office and a draftsman, bookkeeper and such; just a carpenter with a desk in the front room where he kept his papers. He had little education but his figures were correct. He had built good buildings, but he specialized in repairs in the upkeep of property and he had many clients. He was honest and fair; he made money and saved it. He could read blueprints but he couldn’t make ’em. His fingers were all thumbs when it came to outlining.

“Presently he came back with some figures, and about the worst outline I had ever seen. He explained it was a church. It was to have an addition. There was a memorial window to be taken out and placed at the right place in the new part. He had the correct figures and he wanted a rough draft to show ’em. He gave me some big sheets to work on.

“That night, Mrs. Lannarck had to order me to bed, I was that interested. The next morning I was up early. That evening I showed him my outline. He didn’t say much. He took the drawings and his own figures to a meeting that night. When he came home he said he had closed the deal, that my outline was what had helped, said it would make money. My, oh, my, but there was a proud boy in a big bed at the Lannarck home that night. That was the first dollar I have ever earned. Of course, I didn’t get the dollar, but I got much more.

“It sounds sorta mushy, doesn’t it, Mrs. Gillis,” said Davy, interrupting the recital. “Kind of a Pollyanna tale with a Horatio Alger finish. But in none of his stories did Alger ever portray a tougher background or give it a bigger skyrocket finish. Just think of it, Mrs. Gillis! Here was a kid with the black thought that he was never to be a man; was never to do a man’s work, never to win in any manly contest. Worse yet, he had never seen his father or felt a mother’s caress. He never had had a place called home. Do you blame him for horning in?

“Well, it worked out better than I hoped. The next day Mrs. Lannarck began moving the furniture in one of the bedrooms. She emptied dresser drawers, cleared out the closet and brought in other things. Then she invited me up there; told me that she had arranged every thing and this was to be my room, where I could put my things.

“Things? Why, I had come into that home with a busted head and not a penny in my pocket. The very clothes that I wore belonged to the county. Except for the little drawing tools I had, you could have put all of my things in a thimble. Yet I was the richest man in Springfield.

“I lived in that room four happy blessed years. They were years of few incidents and no friction. Mrs. Lannarck bought me a complete outfit of clothing, and she was as particular about the details as if it were a bride’s trousseau. She even provided me with a weekly allowance, small, to be sure, but there was nothing I needed. I kept right on at school and helped around the house wherever I could. I kept Mr. Lannarck’s books, made out his estimates, and drafted his plans. I checked up his payrolls, met his workmen, and his banker. I even met the judge of the court when they adopted me and changed my name.

“I went to church with Mrs. Lannarck, went to Sunday School, and took part in the entertainments. They insisted I was a drawing card and they featured the appearance of a midget on the program. It was all right by me if it met the approval of the Lannarcks.

“During the war, the committee featured me in the Bond Drives. There was a big fellow I teamed up with, named George Ruark. He was nearly a seven-footer and weighed three hundred. I could stand in his two hands as he held them in front of him and urged everybody to back up the war as strongly as I was backed. It made a hit; it got results.

“And then inevitable but unwanted death stalked in, to ruin everything. Mister Lannarck died. He was older than I had thought. He was always careful and honest. He was putting a new roof on the Auditorium when he fell. Maybe it was a stroke. They took him to the hospital. He died on the third day after the fall.

“This was the beginning of the end. A link was broken in the chain. It never mended. Mrs. Lannarck bore up bravely, but I could see that she had lost all earthly joys and simply awaited her summons. Mr. Lannarck’s financial affairs were in good shape. He left quite an estate. The income was ample for our simple needs, but that was not enough. Mrs. Lannarck simply could not go on. She died in a little over a year following the death of her companion. For the second time in my life, I was an orphan.

“But this time I was to have a guardian. I had been legally adopted. I was the heir. I was rich. In the first fifteen years of my life, I had never seen money, never a penny of my own. Now it was the other way. After the funeral I went down to the bank to consult with Mister Gaynor. He handed me a sealed envelope. It was a message from the dear, kind, motherly Mrs. Lannarck. It was a letter of kindly advice, personal and spiritual. She said that she never doubted but that I would walk in the right path, but she made this final appeal. If I never married, never had heirs or dependents, and if there was any of the Lannarck estate left at my death, would I make a will, leaving a portion of it to the Grace Avenue Presbyterian Church, in trust for its upkeep, and a portion to the county orphanage, for the occasional entertainment of its inmates.

“Mrs. Gillis.” Davy was the one now affected by the recitals. His voice was lower and slower. “Mrs. Gillis, after reading that message, I hadn’t the tears out of my eyes nor my voice cleared up, until I was making that will. Gaynor did the work, he knew how, that was his business, and he made it read just as Mrs. Lannarck had requested. The Trust Department of the bank was made the trustee. One-half of all income from my estate was to be paid to the church, the other half for orphanage entertainment. It stands just that way yet, although the value of the estate has doubled.

“The Lannarck estate was what the bank folks called Income Property. It included two suburban store rooms with apartments above. There were three very good residences, five shares of bank stock, bonds and notes and a considerable bank deposit. I made a resolution then and there, that I would never touch a penny of it, and that resolution has been kept. The income has piled up until it now nearly equals the principal. Poor old Gaynor, the next-best friend I ever had, keeps the income collected and invested, and if this depression would only let up and give him a chance, he could build those Presbyterians a new church and give the orphans a picture show every night.

“Of course I’ve earned quite a lot of money, meanwhile, but Gaynor keeps that as a separate checking account; says circuses and vaudeville are not a dependable source of income and that I may go broke. This Ralph Gaynor is a wonder in his line, but it’s not my kind of a line. He talks of interest, margins of safety, of unearned increments, corporate earnings, and things like that. His is not the big bank, with its long rows of figures. His is just a little ‘Dollar-Down’ concern, and he owns it all. Just now, in this depression, the Big Fellows are running to him asking, ‘What to do?’ And he’s telling ’em to trim sails and stay close to shore.

“Ralph Gaynor is the second helpful man to come into my life, but when I grew sick and tired of being gawked at, during all my waking hours and resolved to duck away from the mob, I didn’t go back to Ralph Gaynor for advice. He just wouldn’t understand. The word ‘recreation’ is not in his vocabulary. Colts, dogs, kid-saddles, horseback riding, Landy’s wisecracks, and my present-day joys have no listed values with Ralph Gaynor, and I passed him up. If it were Mrs. Lannarck, she would understand and give it sympathetic approval.

“Well, that’s something of the life story of one midget, Mrs. Gillis. Add to this, twelve long summers with circuses and the winters spent in vaudeville (both with their mobs and gawking crowds) and it’s almost a completed volume. There is yet one chapter to be added and I want to talk about it to the public. One man, Baron Singer, did more for midgets little people than any other person, in all time. He lifted them out of the mediocre; gave them standing and personality. I never met the Baron, but I want the public to know what great work he did for an underprivileged group. And I will tell ’em Saturday night.”