A man’s hand gripped Arnon’s heaving shoulder and sought to raise him to his feet. The touch turned his desolate grief into a rage that was all but murderous. This pound-keeper, by one word, could have saved Dandy and Buck. And instead, he had drowned them.
With a beast snarl, the half-delirious boy was on his feet.
“You swine!” he screeched, as he whirled towards the man. “When I’m big enough, I’m coming back to smash every bone in your fat body! And I’m going to——”
His words caught in his throat with a click. This was not the fat pound-office man. It was Arnon Flint’s father. The boy gaped dazedly.
Yes, it was his father. But Arnon cared not one whit for that. His father could send him to jail for theft or could whale him with a horsewhip or do anything rotten he chose. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Buck and Dandy were dead.
He glowered up into the man’s face, ready for anything that might befall. Then his glower turned to a look of perplexity. His father did not glower back. Instead, Mr. Flint’s face was unspeakably tender.
“Oh, my little boy!” he was saying, brokenly. “Dad’s own crazy, gallant little boy! You’re worn to a shadow! We’ve looked everywhere for you. It wasn’t till yesterday our detectives struck the trail. And I came right on.”
“I didn’t steal the money,” said Arnon, dully, “the bazaar money. I lost it on the trolley-car. I tried to get a job to make it up to the church, but——”
“I know, I know,” broke in his father, in that same unbelievably tender and quivering voice, “Don’t think any more about it. I’ve paid it. Why, dear lad, no one ever supposed you stole it. We knew you couldn’t. Will you come back home with me, Son? Mother is pretty nearly as thin as you are, from worry over you.”