What a complicated machinery human nature is!  It seems absurd that a strongly defined character should be just as full of surprises as the weakest; that the fantastic, the unexpected, even the illogical, are as surely found in the one as in the other.  It would be so nice, so simple and easy, to sit down and foreshadow a certain course of action for a certain individual under a given stress; and to be sure that, in human psychology, two and two make precisely four, no more and no less.

But such is not the case.  In human psychology two and two can just as easily make ten, or fifteen, or any other number; and prophecy in the matter is about as great a waste of time as worrying over the possibilities of the weather.  The constitution of the nervous system cannot be estimated until put to the test.  And when the first test has revealed to us the long-awaited secret, it is just as likely to be flatly contradicted by the second.  The whole thing is the very mischief.

Those who knew him would have been quite certain that in Scipio’s case there could only be one result from the addition of the two and two of his psychology.  In a man of his peculiar mental caliber it might well seem that there could be no variation to the sum.  And the resulting prophecy would necessarily be an evil, or at least a pessimistic one.  He was so helpless, so lacking in all the practicalities of human life.  He seemed to have one little focus that was quite incapable of expansion, of adaptability.  That focus was almost entirely filled by his Jessie’s image, with just a small place in it reserved for his twins.  Take the woman out of it, and, to all intents and purposes, he looked out upon a dead white blank.

Every thought in his inadequate brain was centered round his wife.  She was the mainspring of his every emotion.  His love for her was his whole being.  It was something so great and strong that it enveloped all his senses.  She was his, and he was incapable of imagining life without her.  She was his, and only death could alter so obvious a fact.  She was his vanguard in life’s battle, a support that shored up his confidence and courage to face, with a calm determination, whatever that battle had to offer him.

But with Jessie’s going all prophecy would have remained unfulfilled.  Scipio did not go under in the manner to have been expected of him.  After the first shock, outwardly at least, there appeared to be no change in him.  His apparently colorless personality drifted on in precisely the same amiable, inconsequent manner.  What his moments of solitude were, only he knew.  The agony of grief through which he passed, the long sleepless nights, the heartbreaking sense of loss, these things lay hidden under his meaningless exterior, which, however, defied the revelation of his secret.

After the passing of the first madness which had sent him headlong in pursuit of his wife, a sort of mental evolution set in.  That unadaptable focus of his promptly became adaptable.  And where it had been incapable of expansion, it slowly began to expand.  It grew, and, whereas before his Jessie had occupied full place, his twins now became the central feature.

The original position was largely reversed, but it was chiefly the growth of the images of his children, and not the diminishing of the figure of his wife.  And with this new aspect came calmness.  Nothing could change his great love for his erring Jessie, nothing could wipe out his sense of loss; his grief was always with him.  But whereas, judged by the outward seeming of his character, he should have been crushed under Fate’s cruel blow, an inverse process seemed to have set in.  He was lifted, exalted to the almost sublime heights where his beacon-fire of duty shone.

Yes, but the whole thing was so absurdly twisted.  The care of his children occupied his entire time now, so that his work, in seeking that which was required to support them, had to be entirely neglected.  He had fifty dollars between him and starvation for his children.  Nor could he see his way to earning more.  The struggles of his unpractical mind were painful.  It was a problem quite beyond him.  He struggled nobly with it, but he saw no light ahead, and, with that curious singleness of purpose that was his, he eventually abandoned the riddle, and devoted his whole thought to the children.  Any other man would probably have decided to hire himself out to work on the claims of other men, and so hope to earn sufficient to hire help in the care of the twins, but not so Scipio.  He believed that their future well-being lay in his claim.  If that could not be worked, then there was no other way.

He had just finished clearing up his hut, and the twins were busy with their games outside in the sun, aided by their four-legged yellow companion, whose voice was always to be heard above their excited squabblings and laughter.  So Sunny Oak found things when he slouched up to the hut with the result of the Trust’s overnight meeting in his pocket.

The loafer came in with a grin of good-nature on his perspiring and dirty face.  He was feeling very self-righteous.  It was pleasant to think he was doing a good work.  So much so that the effort of doing it did not draw the usual protest from him.

He glanced about him with a tolerant eye, feeling that henceforth, under the guidance of the Trust he represented, Scipio’s condition would certainly be improved.  But somehow his mental patronage received a quiet set-back.  The hut looked so different.  There was a wholesome cleanliness about it that was quite staggering.  Sunny remembered it as it was when he had last seen it under his regime, and the contrast was quite startling.  Scipio might be incapable of organization, but he certainly could scour and scrub.

Sunny raked at his beard with his unclean finger-nails.  Yes, Zip must have spent hours of unremitting labor on the place since he had seen it last.

However, he lost no time in carrying out his mission.

“Kind o’ busy, Zip?” he greeted the little man pleasantly.

Scipio raised a pair of shadowed eyes from the inside of the well-scoured fry-pan he was wiping.

“I’m mostly through fixin’ these chores for awhiles,” he replied quietly.  Then he nodded in the direction of the children’s voices.  “Guess I’m goin’ to take the kiddies down to the creek to clean ’em.  They need cleanin’ a heap.”

Sunny nodded gravely.  He was thinking of those things he had so carefully written out.

“They sure do,” he agreed.  “Bath oncet a week.  But not use a hand-scrubber, though,” he added, under a wave of memory.  “Kids is tender skinned,” he explained.

“Pore little bits,” the father murmured tenderly.  Then he went on more directly to his visitor.  “But they do need washin’.  It’s kind o’ natural fer kids to fancy dirt.  After that,” he went on, his eyes drifting over to a pile of dirty clothes stacked on a chair, “I’ll sure have to do a bit of washing.”  He set the frying-pan down beside the stove and moved over to the clothes, picking up the smallest pair of child’s knickers imaginable.  They were black with dirt, and he held them up before Sunny’s wondering eyes and smiled pathetically.  “Ridic’lous small,” he said, with an odd twist of his pale lips.  “Pore little gal.”  Then his scanty eyebrows drew together perplexedly, and that curious expression of helplessness that was his crept into his eyes.  “Them frills an’ bits git me some,” he said in a puzzled way.  “Y’see, I ain’t never used an iron much, to speak of.  It’s kind of awkward using an iron.”

Sunny nodded.  Somehow he wished he knew something about using an iron.  Birdie had said nothing about it.

“Guess you hot it on the stove,” he hazarded, after a moment’s thought.

“Yes, I’d say you hot it,” agreed Scipio.  “It’s after that.”

“Yes.”  Sunny found himself thinking hard.  “You got an iron?” he inquired presently.

“Sure two.”  Scipio laid the knickers aside.  “You hot one while you use the other.”

Sunny nodded again.

“You see,” the other went on, considering, “these pretties needs washin’ first.  Well, then I guess they need to dry.  Now, ’bout starch?  ‘Most everything needs starch.  At least, ther’ always seems to be starch around washing-time.  Y’see, I ain’t wise to starch.”

“Blamed if I am either,” agreed Sunny.  Then his more practical mind asserted itself.  “Say, starch kind o’ fixes things hard, don’t it?” he inquired.

“It sure does.”

Scipio was trying to follow out his companion’s train of thought.

Sunny suddenly sat down on the edge of the table and grinned triumphantly.

“Don’t use it,” he cried, with finality.  “You need to remember kiddies is tender skinned, anyway.  Starch’ll sure make ’em sore.”

Scipio brightened.

“Why, yes,” he agreed, with relief.  “I didn’t jest think about that.  I’m a heap obliged, Sunny.  You always seem to help me out.”

The flush of pleasure which responded to the little man’s tribute was quite distinguishable through the dirt on the loafer’s face.

“Don’t mention it,” he said embarrassedly.  “It’s easy, two thinkin’ together.  ’Sides, I’ve tho’t a heap ’bout things since since I started to fix your kiddies right.  Y’see, it ain’t easy.”

“No, it just ain’t.  That is, y’see, I ain’t grumbling,” Scipio went on hurriedly, lest his meaning should be mistaken.  “If you’re stuck on kiddies, like me, it don’t worry you nuthin’.  Kind of makes it pleasant thinkin’ how you can fix things fer ’em, don’t it?  But it sure ain’t easy doing things just right.  That’s how I mean.  An’ don’t it make you feel good when you do fix things right fer ’em?  But I don’t guess that comes often, though,” he added, with a sigh.  “Y’see, I’m kind of awkward.  I ain’t smart, like you or Bill.”

“Oh, Bill’s real smart,” Sunny began.  Then he checked himself.  He was to keep Bill’s name out of this matter, and he just remembered it in time.  So he veered round quickly.  “But I ain’t smart,” he declared.  “Anything I know I got from a leddy friend.  Y’see, women-folk knows a heap ’bout kiddies, which, I ‘lows, is kind o’ natural.”

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out several sheets of paper.  Arranging them carefully, he scanned the scrawling writing on them.

“Guess you’re a scholar, so I won’t need to read what I writ down here.  Mebbe you’ll be able to read it yourself.  I sure ’low the spellin’ ain’t jest right, but you’ll likely understand it.  Y’see, the writin’s clear, which is the chief thing.  I was allus smart with a pen.  Now, this yer is jest how our my leddy frien’ reckons kids needs fixin’.  It ain’t reasonable to guess everything’s down ther’.  They’re jest sort o’ principles which you need to foller.  Maybe they’ll help you some.  Guess if you foller them reg’lations your kids’ll sure grow proper.”

He handed the papers across, and Scipio took them only too willingly.  His thanks, his delight, was in the sudden lighting up of his whole face.  But he did not offer a verbal expression of his feelings until he had read down the first page.  Then he looked up with eyes that were almost moist with gratitude.

“Say,” he began, “I can’t never tell you how ’bliged I am, Sunny.  These things have bothered me a whole heap.  It’s kind of you, Sunny, it is, sure.  I’m that obliged I ”

“Say,” broke in the loafer, “that sort o’ talk sort o’ worrits my brain.  Cut it out.”  Then he grinned.  “Y’see, I ain’t used to thinkin’ hard.  It’s mostly in the natur’ o’ work, an’ well, work an’ me ain’t been friends for years.”

But Scipio was devouring the elaborated information Sunny had so laboriously set out.  The loafer’s picturesque mind had drawn heavily on its resources, and Birdie’s principles had undergone a queer metamorphosis.  So much so, that she would now have had difficulty in recognizing them.  Sunny watched him reading with smiling interest.  He was looking for those lights and shades which he hoped his illuminating phraseology would inspire.  But Scipio was in deadly earnest.  Phraseology meant nothing to him.  It was the guidance he was looking for and devouring hungrily.  At last he looked up, his pale eyes glowing.

“That’s fine,” he exclaimed, with such a wonderful relief that it was impossible to doubt his appreciation.  Then he glanced round the room.  He found some pins and promptly pinned the sheets on the cupboard door.  Then he stood back and surveyed them.  “You’re a good friend, Sunny,” he said earnestly.  “Now I can’t never make a mistake.  There it is all wrote ther’.  An’ when I ain’t sure ’bout nothing, why, I only jest got to read what you wrote.  I don’t guess the kiddies can reach them there.  Y’see, kiddies is queer ’bout things.  Likely they’d get busy tearing those sheets right up, an’ then wher’d I be?  I’ll start right in now on those reg’lations, an’ you’ll see how proper the kiddies’ll grow.”  He turned and held out his hand to his benefactor.  “I’m ’bliged, Sunny; I sure can’t never thank you enough.”

Sunny disclaimed such a profusion of gratitude, but his dirty face shone with good-natured satisfaction as he gripped the little man’s hand.  And after discussing a few details and offering a few suggestions, which, since the acceptance of his efforts, seemed to trip off his tongue with an easy confidence which surprised even himself, he took his departure.  And he left the hut with the final picture of Scipio, still studying his pages of regulations with the earnestness of a divinity student studying his Bible, filling his strongly imaginative brain.  He felt good.  He felt so good that he was sorry there was nothing more to be done until Wild Bill’s return.