Free The Egyptologist by Arthur Phillips
Authors: Arthur Phillips
end of the day comes and the ragamuffins head out the door, and Ronald Barry is tidying up, and he can't find the picture book about Egypt, too bad, since he'd borrowed it from his sister at the public library. Clearly, one of the scoundrels had swiped it, and next morning, Ronald's thinking about how to
conduct his investigations when little Paul Caldwell comes in early. The boy looks worse than usual, but he hands back the missing book. Turns out he hadn't gone home the night before, had stayed out all night long just looking at this book, actually slept outdoors. He doesn't say just what made it such a ripping read, doesn't say much at all, "doesn't even apologise, the little thief," says Mr. No-Private-Property. Then the boy asks, under his breath, might there be other books like this one?
"Mr. Ferrell, there are few moments in my career when I felt real pride in what I was doing. But I remember clearly how I felt that moment. This little child wanted to learn. I forgot at once about the theft: this one was going to be one we could save. Of course, if I knew then what I know now, I would have throttled the viper when I could still get my hands round his neck."
That afternoon, Ronald Barry takes his prized pupil to one of the smaller branches of the public library. And which librarian greets him that day but Catherine Barry, the teacher's lovely sister. "Sis, here's a young fellow with real promise who wants to learn how to get more books about ancient Egypt, of all things.'' "Hello, Paul Caldwell," Miss Barry says sweetly, a little twinkle in her eye saying, "Don't take me too seriously, I'm a good chum if you want one," all mis• leading kindness and appropriately red curly hair and a sweet face. (Even by '22, even after what she'd been through, I must confess she was a lovely thing. Treach• erous, appearances.) The boy has no social graces, can barely speak, looks at the ground, has probably never been in a building as clean and official as our little library, has probably never been spoken to as kindly by anyone, has probably never seen anyone as beautiful and apparently friendly as Miss Barry. All because he'd been taken by something in a picture book.
"Well, Mr. Ferrell, we decided to take the little fellow under our wing," Catherine Barry told me with flirtatious pride. "Let's see about making you a member of our library," says the Red agent to the little boy. That first day, Miss Barry showed him all around, and though he barely spoke, she was encouraged to see his eyes widen at the sight of all the books, the neat tables, the lamps and chairs. "This is all yours to use as a citizen, the equal to any rich man," I can hear her saying to the tiny scholar.
"He was heartbreaking," she told me, and I wrote that down and underlined it, noting, "Why no children of her own?" "This boy had been betrayed by every• one—family, state, church. It was all I could do to get the poor felow to speak to me, and no surprise. Even then, the only thing he would really talk about was Egypt. Something about that book Ronnie had shown him just tickled him. Well,
first things first: I found him a different one, A Boy's Own Book of Egypt, I re• member the cover. He immediately took one of the chairs in the corner and did not look up again until I came over to tell him the library was closing, but he could come back tomorrow after school, and read some more, if he liked. 'Is no one waiting for you at home, then?' I asked. Poor creature. You could see that home held no meaning for him, even at that tender age.
"He did not want to go home, or say why not. So I asked him, 'Would you eat a piece of kidney pie, then?' and the poor little fellow practically jumped out of his skin." I can imagine that boy, Macy, with her standing behind him, gently placing her hands on his shoulders, looking over his reading, smelling so nice, all false promise. "Mr. Ferrell, it was a class crime, a fine young boy, starved by dev• ilish church and
conduct his investigations when little Paul Caldwell comes in early. The boy looks worse than usual, but he hands back the missing book. Turns out he hadn't gone home the night before, had stayed out all night long just looking at this book, actually slept outdoors. He doesn't say just what made it such a ripping read, doesn't say much at all, "doesn't even apologise, the little thief," says Mr. No-Private-Property. Then the boy asks, under his breath, might there be other books like this one?
"Mr. Ferrell, there are few moments in my career when I felt real pride in what I was doing. But I remember clearly how I felt that moment. This little child wanted to learn. I forgot at once about the theft: this one was going to be one we could save. Of course, if I knew then what I know now, I would have throttled the viper when I could still get my hands round his neck."
That afternoon, Ronald Barry takes his prized pupil to one of the smaller branches of the public library. And which librarian greets him that day but Catherine Barry, the teacher's lovely sister. "Sis, here's a young fellow with real promise who wants to learn how to get more books about ancient Egypt, of all things.'' "Hello, Paul Caldwell," Miss Barry says sweetly, a little twinkle in her eye saying, "Don't take me too seriously, I'm a good chum if you want one," all mis• leading kindness and appropriately red curly hair and a sweet face. (Even by '22, even after what she'd been through, I must confess she was a lovely thing. Treach• erous, appearances.) The boy has no social graces, can barely speak, looks at the ground, has probably never been in a building as clean and official as our little library, has probably never been spoken to as kindly by anyone, has probably never seen anyone as beautiful and apparently friendly as Miss Barry. All because he'd been taken by something in a picture book.
"Well, Mr. Ferrell, we decided to take the little fellow under our wing," Catherine Barry told me with flirtatious pride. "Let's see about making you a member of our library," says the Red agent to the little boy. That first day, Miss Barry showed him all around, and though he barely spoke, she was encouraged to see his eyes widen at the sight of all the books, the neat tables, the lamps and chairs. "This is all yours to use as a citizen, the equal to any rich man," I can hear her saying to the tiny scholar.
"He was heartbreaking," she told me, and I wrote that down and underlined it, noting, "Why no children of her own?" "This boy had been betrayed by every• one—family, state, church. It was all I could do to get the poor felow to speak to me, and no surprise. Even then, the only thing he would really talk about was Egypt. Something about that book Ronnie had shown him just tickled him. Well,
first things first: I found him a different one, A Boy's Own Book of Egypt, I re• member the cover. He immediately took one of the chairs in the corner and did not look up again until I came over to tell him the library was closing, but he could come back tomorrow after school, and read some more, if he liked. 'Is no one waiting for you at home, then?' I asked. Poor creature. You could see that home held no meaning for him, even at that tender age.
"He did not want to go home, or say why not. So I asked him, 'Would you eat a piece of kidney pie, then?' and the poor little fellow practically jumped out of his skin." I can imagine that boy, Macy, with her standing behind him, gently placing her hands on his shoulders, looking over his reading, smelling so nice, all false promise. "Mr. Ferrell, it was a class crime, a fine young boy, starved by dev• ilish church and