CHAPTER XIX
On the following morning Donald Rogers determined to go down to Mr. Brennan’s office and have a talk with him. As the executor of West’s estate, as well as Mrs. Rogers’ attorney, he felt that the lawyer might be able to suggest a basis for an understanding of some sort between Edith and himself. Bobbie he took to his own office and left in the care of his draughtsman. The child was delighted, and spent the morning drawing ships and dogs and many other things upon a great sheet of cardboard with which the latter provided him.
Mr. Brennan was luckily in. Perhaps he suspected the object of Donald’s visit – at any rate he received him at once, dismissed the stenographer who had been taking notes at his side, and waved his caller to a chair.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Rogers,” he began. “How is Mrs. Rogers? I trust she is enjoying her stay at the seashore.”
“Mrs. Rogers is very well.” Donald nervously began to light a cigar, fumbling with the matches awkwardly in his agitation. Now that he was with Mr. Brennan, he felt at a loss to know how to begin.
“Let me see. You are at New London, are you not? Beautiful old place. I spent a summer there, once. You go down for the week ends, I presume.”
Donald ceased his efforts to light the cigar, threw the box of matches, which Mr. Brennan had handed him, upon the desk, and looked up.
“Yes. I was there on Saturday. I left Saturday night. I had a disagreement with Mrs. Rogers. That’s what I came to see you about.”
Mr. Brennan raised his eyebrows, put on his glasses slowly, and inspected his caller with deliberate care. “I’m very sorry to hear it, Mr. Rogers,” he said. “Nothing serious, I trust?”
“I’m afraid it is – very.”
“Hm-m. Dear me! And what can I do in the matter?”
“You are a friend of both Mrs. Rogers and myself. I want your advice. I want you to see her – to talk to her.”
“What’s the trouble?” Brennan sat back in his chair, prepared to listen, with a grave suspicion in his mind as to the cause of Donald’s heavy eyes and careworn face.
“Before I can discuss the matter with you, Mr. Brennan, I want to ask you one question.”
“Yes? What is it?”
“Do you know why West left his money to my wife?”
“My dear sir. That is a very peculiar question. How should I know?”
“You were the executor of his will.”
“Undoubtedly. Yet I fail to see what that has to do with it.”
“You must have seen his papers – his letters.” Donald looked at the lawyer intently. “Answer me frankly, Mr. Brennan. Do you know?”
“Surely, Mr. Rogers, you can hardly expect me to answer such a question, even granting that I could do so.”
“Why not?”
“As executor of Mr. West’s will, it is certainly not my business to discuss the reasons which may have prompted him to make it.”
Donald rose and went over to the lawyer. “Mr. Brennan,” he cried, “don’t try to quibble with me. I have asked you a plain, blunt question. You are under no obligation to answer it, of course, but, until you do so, we can proceed no further.”
“I always supposed it was because he was very fond of her,” ventured the lawyer uneasily.
“Fond of her! Yes! But how, Mr. Brennan? How?”
“They were very old friends, were they not?”
“Were they nothing more?” Donald leaned over the desk and fixed his eyes keenly upon those of the man opposite him. He felt the blood surging to his temples. “Why don’t you answer me, Mr. Brennan?” he went on, as the lawyer dropped his eyes. “Were they nothing more?”
His searching questions began to annoy the lawyer. “Why do you ask me such a question, Mr. Rogers?” he snapped.
“Only to find out how much you know. Mrs. Rogers has confessed everything to me. You can do her no harm by telling me the truth, and you will make it much easier for us to go ahead. Do you know?”
“Yes,” Brennan answered at length, in a low voice.
“How?”
“All the letters your wife wrote to West came to me along with his other papers.”
Donald recoiled in bitterness of spirit. However certain he had been of Edith’s guilt, he still hoped that Mr. Brennan, in some way, might disclose mitigating circumstances, facts of which he himself was not cognizant, whereby her affair with West might present an appearance less damning.
“My God!” he muttered. “And you read them?”
“Yes. I considered it my duty to examine all his papers.”
“How did you know they were from my wife?”
“By her initials, signed to them – by the handwriting.”
“And you have known this all these months, and said nothing?” Donald strode to the window and looked out. The North River, quivering in the hot sunlight, was a clutter of barges, tugs and ferry-boats, but his eyes, blurred with tears, saw nothing. Presently he turned. “Where are those letters now?” he asked.
“I do not know. I gave them to Mrs. Rogers. I advised her to destroy them. I presume she has done so.”
An angry light crept into Donald’s eyes. “You had no right – ” he began hotly.
Mr. Brennan raised his hand. “You are in error, Mr. Rogers. I had every right. The letters belonged to your wife, by law. Mr. West left her everything he possessed.”
“What did she say to him?” He strode excitedly toward the desk. “Tell me, man. Can’t you see what it means to me?”
“They were the letters of a weak, foolish woman, Mr. Rogers – not a bad one – of that I am sure.”
“Not a bad one? You mean – ?”
“I mean, Mr. Rogers, that whatever your wife may have intended to do – however far she may have intended to go – West’s death saved her from the one step which the world considers unforgivable.”
“I hope you are right – God knows I hope you are right.”
“I am sure that I am. Now tell me what has happened.”
“I have left my wife. I have left her, and taken my boy.”
“Well – now that you have taken that step, what do you propose to do next?”
“I don’t know. That is what I want to discuss with you. It is a terrible situation. I scarcely know which way to turn. She has sent me a letter, asking me to see her. I have agreed to do so – to-day. What I shall say to her I do not know. Within the past forty-eight hours I have had every good and kind and generous impulse within me shattered and destroyed. The friend that I loved and trusted has betrayed me. The wife for whom I would have given my life has proven disloyal – false. My self-respect is gone. My home is a wreck. The money that keeps it up comes from a man who did his best to ruin me.” He began to walk about, distracted, his voice choking with feeling. “Is it any wonder that I feel bitter? Is it any wonder that I do not know what to do?”
The lawyer removed his glasses and considered them carefully for a long time. The problem was indeed a serious one.
Presently he spoke. “The first consideration, of course, is your child.”
“I know it. I have taken him from his mother. He wants her – needs her. Have I the right to deprive him of her love?”
“Not unless she has proven herself unworthy of it.”
“Hasn’t she? Is a woman who is unfaithful to her husband – who is willing to live on the money given her by the man who made her so – is such a woman fit to bring up a child – to teach him to be straightforward, and honest, and good?”
“You use strong terms, Mr. Rogers. As I said before, I do not believe your wife has been unfaithful to you.”
“I do not refer to any specific act. Unfaithfulness is not alone a physical thing. She has fallen in love with another man. She has agreed to abandon her husband, and run away with him. She was willing to sacrifice even her child, by robbing him of his father. In one week more, but for this man’s death, she would have done all these things. Is not such a woman unfaithful? Is not that enough? Could any one act have made her more so? If your wife were to do these things, would you not call her unfaithful?”
“You refuse to forgive her, then?”
“No. I do not refuse to forgive her. I have told her that I am ready to do so, on one condition.”
“What is that condition, Mr. Rogers?”
“That she give up this man’s money.”
“Has she agreed?”
“No. She has refused.”
“Why do you insist on that?”
“Is it possible that you do not understand? What else can I do? If she returns to me, it must be with clean hands.”
“You ask a great deal, Mr. Rogers. It seems to me that your chances for happiness would be a great deal better, if you were to let her keep this money.”
“Man – do you realize what you are saying? Isn’t there a greater question at stake than just my happiness? Isn’t it right? Isn’t it her duty? Isn’t it necessary to her own self-respect? I cannot see how she could hesitate for a moment.”
“Then you do not understand women. There are not many of them, situated as she is, who could resist the temptation of thirty thousand dollars a year.”
“Then you defend her, Mr. Brennan. I did not expect it from you. I had hoped you would see her – talk to her – show her what a terrible mistake she is making.”
The lawyer rose, and began to walk up and down in deep thought. All his life, he had been concerned with the one idea, the one duty – that of preserving for his clients every dollar that the law allowed them. Money in a way had become almost sacred to him. Other points of view seemed foolish, quixotic. “I’m a cold-blooded, practical man, Mr. Rogers. Life as I have seen it has not made me sentimental. Lawyers rarely are. Half a million dollars is a large sum of money. It means freedom from all the wretched, grinding cares of existence, that fret out one’s soul. Few things in life make much difference, after all, if one has a comfortable bank-balance. You ask your wife to give up all that this money means, and come back to poverty – comparatively speaking at least. It is a hard question for any woman to decide – a mighty hard question.”
“You are wrong. You judge from the cynical, money-getting standpoint of Broadway. There are bigger and finer and nobler things in the world than money. It’s the right of the thing that counts.”
“Perhaps it is, Mr. Rogers, but most women don’t look at things that way. They are creatures of impulse. Logic is not their strong point. You expect too much of your wife. I have known a great many women – in my time – and my experience is that the best of them have their price.” He noticed Donald’s dissenting gesture, but waved his interruption aside. “Don’t misunderstand me. I do not necessarily mean in a wrong way. It may be a title, or a million, with some – with others the price of a meal, or a lodging for the night. The man who expects too much of women is bound to be disappointed. Let your wife keep this money. With it she will be happy – contented. Without it, she will be miserable. She has tasted the pleasures of wealth – now – and her old life will seem doubly distasteful to her. Don’t be unreasonable. Remember that after all, she is, like most women, a good deal of a child.”
Donald took up his hat, and his face showed the disappointment he felt. “Mr. Brennan,” he said, “I’m sorry I can’t think as you do. I was brought up to know the difference between right and wrong, and I haven’t forgotten it. It would be impossible – absolutely impossible – for me to share in any way in this money, or to let my boy do so. On that point I am determined.”
Brennan looked grave, and regarded Donald with cynical compassion. “I’m sorry to hear it, Mr. Rogers. In that case I do not see that I can be of any service to you.”
“Then you won’t undertake to see Mrs. Rogers, and convince her of her mistake?”
“I do not think it will have any result. You are very young yet, Mr. Rogers. You look at this thing entirely too seriously.”
Donald turned away with a great sense of bitterness, of injustice, in his heart. “My God!” he cried. “How can you say such a thing? There is only one way to look at it, and that is the right way. In your heart, you know it. Don’t you suppose it would be the easiest way, for me to take this money? Isn’t there every reason why I should? My wife – my child – my business interests, all urge me to accept it – to make of myself that most contemptible thing in the world – a man who is willing to live on a woman – to share with her what she has got from her lover. You know what they call such creatures. You know that no decent, self-respecting man could do what you have advised me to do. I value my wife – my home, more than most men do – I have given them the best I had in me – but one thing I value even more than them, and that is my self-respect. I have not made a great success in life, in a material way, but what I have made, I have made honestly. I have always been able to look the world squarely in the face, without feeling ashamed, and I propose to keep on doing so. Advise my wife as you please. Her mother and sister are with you. But I want you to understand – the whole lot of you – that she need not expect me to forgive her, and take her back, so long as she keeps a dollar of this man’s money, for I won’t do it – by God, I won’t do it!” He flung angrily toward the door.
Mr. Brennan stared at him for a moment, then reached out his hand. “Mr. Rogers,” he said, “your views may not be practical, and they may not bring you happiness, but, by God, sir, I respect you for them. Good-day.”
Donald went back to his office like a man who has met a crushing blow, but met it undaunted. He found Bobbie, tired of his pencil and paper, looking out of the window at the boats on the river, and wailing for his mother.
The father disposed of his mail while the boy played about his desk, gave his assistant a few instructions, and, with Bobbie holding his hand, once more started up-town. On the way, he bought the child some little chocolate cigars, thereby lulling him into temporary forgetfulness of his mother’s absence. Life seemed all of a sudden to have become very gray and bitter.
One ray of light, however, pierced the overshadowing gloom. Forbes, his partner in the glass-plant venture, had wired Donald from Parkersburg that he had succeeded in securing from some bankers there the necessary money to tide over the crisis in the company’s affairs. Several large orders had come in also. It appeared certain that they would be able to weather the storm. The good news seemed trifling, somehow, in his present state of mind, but it was something, and for the moment he felt grateful.
CHAPTER XX
Edith Rogers came to see her husband, probably less inclined toward the sacrifice upon which he insisted than she had been when he left her the Saturday before. Her heart had ached to see her boy, but she felt a growing resentment toward Donald, for what she felt was his hard-heartedness. Her feelings in this direction had been fanned to a flame by the arguments of her mother, who had succeeded in persuading her that what Donald asked was unreasonable and wrong. She knew that the affair between West and herself had not gone to the ultimate lengths that Donald evidently suspected – she did not stop to consider that in all else but this one thing she had been utterly faithless, and that even this step she would have taken, had not death intervened and saved her. Being a woman, she could not put herself in Donald’s place, and understand the brutal way in which his feelings had been outraged by the treachery of the two persons on earth whom he had most loved and trusted – his wife and his friend. Hence it was in no spirit of repentance that she entered the little room in which she had spent so many weary hours, but rather as one who came to demand her rights.
Her mother had returned from New York furious with Donald, and determined to use every means in her power to prevent a reconciliation between him and Edith. Her carefully detailed description of the reception which her son-in-law had given her, a description which lost nothing by reason of the fury into which Mrs. Pope had succeeded in working herself, made Edith realize fully that Donald was very much in earnest, and not at all likely to return to her, however long she might wait for him to do so.
There was clearly but one thing to do: she must go to him, and endeavor to show him the cruelty, the unreasonableness, of his attitude. Something in the firm stand which he had taken compelled her admiration; even while it dealt a blow to her pride. She had never known Donald to be like this before – he had always humored her, always been apologetic, regretful because he was unable to gratify her every desire. She longed for the moment to come, when she might see him and Bobbie again, and determined to use every power of attraction she possessed to bring him to her way of thinking. It had been easy in the past – her tears, her reproaches, had usually brought him contritely to her feet.
Mrs. Pope, in her anger, attempted to dissuade Edith from this intention. “I shouldn’t go near him, my dear,” she said, her eyes snapping. “Let him stay there alone for a week or two, with Bobbie to look after. That will bring him to his senses.” Edith, however, would not listen to her. “I shall go, mother,” she said. “After all, Donald has been pretty badly treated. I never should have acted as I did. I mean to do my best to let him see that I care for him just as much as I ever did. Of course, he must be reasonable, too. I’m not going to give up this money. He ought not to ask it.”
Alice had been listening to the conversation between her mother and sister in gloomy silence. Mr. Hall had decided to move to the hotel for the remainder of his stay, and she was annoyed to think that all her plans had been upset. “What’s the use of deluding yourself, Edith,” she remarked pointedly. “Donald will make you give up that money as sure as fate. I never saw him so angry.”
“Alice, you talk like a fool,” said her mother. “How can he make her give it up? He’s hardly likely to use a club.”
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Alice flung at them, as she left the room. “Edith has needed one, for some time.” Mrs. Pope was aghast. “Sometimes, Edith,” she confided to the latter, “I think Alice is losing her mind.” Edith was not so sure. She had always had great faith in her sister’s judgment, and the latter’s remark worried her.
There was one way, she concluded, and only one, to deal with Donald. She must make herself as attractive, as alluring, as possible. When she dressed herself, the following afternoon, for her trip to the city, she put on her most becoming gown, her most effective hat. She prepared herself with the greatest care. Her maid spent most of the forenoon getting her ready, manicuring her nails, washing and drying her hair, massaging her face, doing everything, in fact, that might be done to enhance her physical charms. She knew she had always been a beautiful woman – she was sure, when she glanced at herself in the cheval glass in her bedroom, that she had never appeared to greater advantage. It did not occur to her that she might make a better impression upon her husband in the sober garb of repentance. She wanted to attract him, to charm him, to force him to desire her so greatly that he would make any sacrifice in order to bring her to his arms.
In all this she showed her lack of understanding of Donald’s character. Everything she wore, from her dainty suède slippers to her costly hat, she owed to West. The jewels she wore had been purchased with his money. The gold purse which dangled so carelessly from her wrist, accompanied by an array of pencils, vanity boxes and fashionable gew-gaws, his wealth alone had made possible. Had she but appreciated it, everything about her was calculated to send Donald into a storm of rage, rather than to attract him and bring him submissively to her feet.
Mrs. Pope nodded proudly as her daughter came down the stairs. “You look stunning, dear – a wife of whom any man might be proud. Don’t give in an inch. You have right on your side, and it only requires a little courage to win.” She settled herself comfortably in her chair. “Would you mind ringing for Richards, my dear? I must have a refreshing drink of some sort. This heat is positively unbearable.”
The ride to town was hot and uncomfortable. Edith, on her arrival, went at once to a hotel near the station and ordered dinner. She did not feel particularly hungry – she was too nervous and excited for that; but she felt the need of something to sustain her throughout the trying ordeal which, she knew, lay before her. Then, too, she had at least two hours to wait, before eight o’clock, at which time she felt that Donald would have finished his dinner and be ready to receive her.
She drove up-town, after her meal, in a taxicab, and arrived at the Roxborough a little before eight. The tawdry entrance to the place, with its imitation marbles and imitation palms, sent a shiver of apprehension through her. God, to come back to a place like this! It was not to be thought of. In this frame of mind she ascended in the elevator, and in a moment stood before the doorway to their apartment. Everything seemed the same – even the crack in the tinted plaster to the left of the door, the smell of gas and cooking, the flickering gas jet in the hall. She realized their familiarity, yet she might have been away for ages, so far removed from her present life did they seem.
Donald opened the door, and quietly closed it after her, welcoming her with grave politeness.
“Donald!” she cried, as he came toward her. “Where is Bobbie?”
“In his room,” he replied.
“I want to see him.”
“He’s asleep.”
He gazed at her exquisite pongee gown, her costly hat, the lace coat she carried upon her arm, and frowned.
“How could you take the poor child away like that? It must have broken his heart to leave all his things – his pony, and his boat, and all. Is he well? Have you taken good care of him? You know how careful I always am about what he has to eat.”
Donald’s frown deepened. “Bobbie is very well,” he said slowly. “It seems to me there is a bigger question between us than that.”
“Can there be any bigger question than Bobbie?” she asked.
He gazed at her for a few moments in moody silence. “Did you come here to tell me that?” he presently asked.
“No, Donald. I came to ask your forgiveness.”
“You know the conditions under which I will discuss the matter,” he interrupted.
“Yes. You blame me for taking this money. You want me to give it up. Don’t you know that all I have done has been for him?” She glanced significantly toward the door of the bedroom.
Donald stood for a moment in silence. He felt in this woman no sense of sorrow, of repentance, but only a stubborn insistence upon what she considered her rights.
“Was it for him that you agreed to abandon your home, your husband, and run away with another man?” he asked bitterly.
She reproached him, pleading with her eyes, her voice. “Oh – don’t – don’t!” she cried. “Can’t you forgive me? Can’t you?”
“Not until you show yourself worthy of forgiveness. You belong to him as long as you accept his money.”
She came up to him, her hands outstretched. “Donald!” she cried. “That is what I want to talk to you about. I have been a very foolish woman. I have done things that I can never forgive myself for as long as I live. I am bitterly – bitterly – sorry. If it were not for our boy, I would go away, and never trouble you again. I have been a miserable fool, and I cannot blame you if you hate and despise me. I threw away everything that was dear to me for nothing – nothing! Now I know that it is your love and my boy’s that I want more than anything in the world. But, Donald, what has this money to do with what I have done? Will it make it any the less wrong, to give it up? If you are really willing to give me another chance, can’t you do it without bringing this question of money into the matter? Can’t you do it because I am sincerely, honestly repentant; because I love you, and want your love, your forgiveness so much – so very much?” She put her hand upon his arm, and there were tears in her eyes. “Donald, listen to me, please – won’t you?”
“If you had come here in the same poor things you wore before all this happened,” he said, turning coldly from her, “it would be easier for me to forget. What do you mean by flaunting this man’s money in my face, with your jewels – your finery?” He looked at her, and a feeling almost of disgust crept over him. “Can’t you see that everything about you reeks of him?”
“Oh, Donald,” she cried, “don’t be angry with me – please don’t. I didn’t think about my clothes – indeed, I didn’t.” She seemed unable to understand that it was not her clothes he objected to, but what they represented.
“You mean you did not think about my feelings. You never do think about the things that count.”
She turned away from him, sobbing. “Oh, don’t! How can you say such things to me? Isn’t it the repentance of my heart that counts?”
“If there were any real repentance in your heart,” he said, “you would put those things from you as though they were polluted.” He began to walk up and down the room, unable to contain his anger.
Edith saw that upon the one point – that of West’s money – he was inflexible. She looked up with an air of resignation. “Very well,” she said suddenly. “I will do as you ask. I will give up this money. I will never touch another penny of it as long as I live, but I want it put aside for Bobbie.”
“Never!” he cried angrily.
He had thought, when she began to speak, that she had yielded; her concluding words told him that she was only quibbling.
“Donald, you can’t mean what you say. Think of his future!”
“I don’t want to argue the question,” he exclaimed impatiently. “You know perfectly well I will never consent to what you ask. It’s contemptible.”
Again she began to sob. “How can you be so cruel? How can you?” she moaned.
“Isn’t it true?” he replied indignantly.
“It doesn’t make any difference how you hurt me – I know I deserve it – but you shall not take this chance away from my boy. It isn’t right! it isn’t fair! Hurt me all you want to, revenge yourself upon me to the best of your ability, but don’t take it out on him. I am fighting for his happiness, and I intend to give it to him.”
“Then you are going about it in a very strange way. Let him grow up and go out into the world with clean hands and a clear conscience; let him know that truth, and right, and honor are more important than all the money in the world, and I’ll answer for his happiness.”
“He need never know,” she began.
“You know, and I know. I refuse to degrade myself, even for his sake.”
“There is nothing I would not do for his sake.”
“Nothing! The very first thing is to give up this shameful inheritance, and you refuse to do it.”
“It is for his sake that I refuse.”
Donald turned away from her. There seemed no use in trying to appeal to her sense of right.
“Donald,” she began again, “if you will not let Bobbie have the money, then give it to my mother.”
“No, I won’t do it, and I have told her so. Even your sister, it seems, has decency enough to see that I am right.”
“If Alice had been married eight years, and had a child, she might feel differently.”
“I hope not,” he said, without looking at her.
Edith threw herself disconsolately into a chair. “You make everything so hard – so very hard,” she cried. “Is there nothing I can say that will move you? Is your business in West Virginia nothing to you? Tell me, Donald, are you willing to see that fail?”
He turned on her, indignant. “I did not think you would come here and taunt me with that! Let it fail – a thousand times; let every cent I have in it go, rather than owe its success to him!”
“How can you be so bitter?”
“Haven’t you done enough to make me so?”
“If this business does fail, what then?”
He swept his hand about the room. “This,” he said. “Whatever I have – however little it may be – as long as it is honest.”
She followed his gaze and shivered, as though the place chilled her. “And you expect me to come back to such a life?” she asked bitterly.
“If you come back at all – yes.”
“To cook, and scrub, and scrape, and save, and wear out my life like a servant! Ugh!” She shuddered.
“So it was yourself you were thinking of, after all,” he cried scornfully. “After what you have done, you ought to thank God for the chance.”
She got up and approached him, holding out her hands appealingly. “Oh, Donald – Donald!” she cried. “Please don’t make me do this – please don’t. I can’t stand it – indeed, I can’t.”
“I do not make you do it,” he answered her. “I do not even ask you to do it. You know the conditions under which you can return here. Do as you please.”
“Can’t you show a little generosity? I had hoped to come to you and talk over our affairs in a friendly spirit.”
“There is nothing to talk over. You know your duty. There is only one question, and that question is, are you going to do it?”
She stood for a long time, as though unable to make up her mind. Suddenly she put the whole thing aside. “It is too big a question to decide off-hand,” she said, walking away from him, her hands clenched. “Donald – ” she turned – “I want to see Bobbie.” She took a step toward the bedroom door.
Donald stepped in front of her, blocking the way. “No!” he cried passionately. “No!”
“Donald! Don’t!” she exclaimed, alarmed at his manner.
“You cannot come in here.”
“I cannot see my own child? You dare tell me that?”
“Yes. You shall not see him. You shall not go near him, until you agree to do as I say.”
“You shall not do this!” she cried, her eyes blazing. “It is wrong – wrong!”
“Then come to your senses.”
“Is it possible that you could be so cruel?” she asked slowly. “Is it possible that you could deprive that innocent child of his mother’s love?”
“It is you who are depriving him of it – not I.”
“Have you thought what it will mean, if you do this thing? Don’t you know that it will break his heart? Night after night he will cry for me – for his mother – and you cannot comfort him, and all through the long days he will want me, and ask for me, and will not understand. You talk about giving him truth, and right, and honor. What are those things to him, compared to a mother’s love? You shall not come between me and my boy – you shall not – you shall not!” She concluded with a burst of hysterical sobbing, then again started toward the bedroom. “Open that door!” she demanded. “Open it, I say! I want my boy!”