“Good-night,” she called softly, and passed into her room.
He looked up slowly. “Good-night,” he whispered.
He drew his chair over to the table, which was spread with his evening meal. He was hungry, and still he could not eat. He arose and, catching up his cap, opened the door and passed out into the autumn night.
It was late when he returned. As he drew near to the house he noted that the candles were still burning in the big room. Through the window he saw three neighbor men sitting beside his father at the table. They seemed to be conversing earnestly. When he entered the house they all looked up, and Bill Paisley put his finger on his lips.
“I suppose,” he said dryly, when Boy was seated beside them, “I suppose you just naturally want that head of yours shot off clean, don’t you? Else why would you be wanderin’ around this night the way you’ve been, Boy?”
Boy reached over for a slice of cornbread. His walk in the wood had soothed the new tempest that had lately come to sway his soul.
“Boy,” said Big McTavish, “you didn’t tell us that you’d been fired on to-day.”
Boy dropped his corncake and looked about him quickly.
“Well, I didn’t tell anybody, for the matter o’ that. How did you know I was shot at, dad?”
“I told him,” declared Declute.