“I know I shall cry myself to sleep to-night, after Dorothy’s harrowing me up in such style.”
An every-day home picture.—Page 176.
“You’d better take an umbrella up-stairs with you, Dot,” suggested Harry. “Leon is right over you, you know, and if the ceiling should leak, you’d get a ducking to pay for your song.”
“I wouldn’t go back, Leon, if I felt so badly about it as all that,” said his father. “I confess that I hate to have you go, myself; I’d much prefer to have you here, in charge of Dr. Bruce.”
“Don’t go, Leon,” urged his mother anxiously. “I’m afraid you’ll get a fall on your crutches, or strain your foot again, in some way. You’d better stay here at home, till you are over this.”
“Oh, mother,” remonstrated Harry; “Leon is just as well off up there. We’ll take good care of him, I promise you.”
“One thing is certain,” said his father seriously; “that was the last game of football that either of my sons will play, with my consent. You needn’t groan, Leon, I mean just what I say.”
“Yes,” added Dorothy a little inconsiderately; “we’ve had football enough for one family. This sprain of Leon’s has spoiled all the fun, this vacation.”
Leon flushed.