Poor little Benny knew not what to do. For a moment he was tempted to hide the pieces, go back to the dairy, get another crock, and say nothing about the matter; but almost instantly he recoiled from the temptation and told himself he was a coward for even thinking of such a thing, and therefore bearing the broken pieces back to the house, he showed them to Mrs. Bentley. “I am awfully sorry,” he faltered. “I don’t know how it happened. Something seemed to come out of the air and strike the crock. I didn’t see anybody, and can’t imagine how it happened.”
Mrs. Bentley looked a little suspiciously at the boy. It was natural for boys to make excuses, she reasoned, and it was on the point of her tongue to say that she had very frequently been told of breakages which had occurred by articles coming to pieces in her servant’s hands in some mysterious way, when they were broken through carelessness; but just here little Jamie piped up:
“I know how it happened. That ugly, big boy, one of the pickers, threw a stone at Ben. I saw him; he was hiding in the bushes by the spring and he ran.”
“It was Ivan,” cried Benny. “I know it was.” And upon being questioned he gave some account of the persecutions he had endured, while Mrs. Bentley listened gravely.
“I don’t see how you have stood it,” she said; “but we’ll have no more such tricks. I can’t have such an evil-minded person around here. There is no telling what he might do. He’ll have to go.”
And the next morning Benny was informed that Ivan had been dismissed, and had gone back to the city.
Benny breathed freer after this. He had dreaded immeasurably sleeping in the quarters, so close to Ivan, as he was obliged to be. And to his unspeakable relief, after supper, Mrs. Bentley said to him, “If you are going to be my helper, Ben, I’d rather you’d sleep at the house. Those pickers are not very clean.”
And he was shown a little room under the eaves, where he lay down and slept peacefully.