In pitying the misfortune of the school, thus suddenly and at so critical a moment deprived of Henry's presence and help, Mrs. Knight felt less keenly the pang of her own misfortune and that of her son. Nevertheless, it was a night sufficiently tragic in Oxford Street.
Mr. Knight returned with Henry's two prizes—Self-Help and The Voyage of the 'Fox' in the Arctic Seas.
The boy had wakened once, but dozed again.
'Put them on the chair where he can see them in the morning,' Aunt Annie suggested.
'Yes,' said the father, brightening. 'And I'll wind up his watch for him.... Bless us! what's he been doing to the watch? What is it, Annie?
'Why did you do it?' Mr. Knight asked Tom. 'That's what I can't understand. Why did you do it?'
They were alone together the next morning in the sitting-room. ('I will speak to that young man privately,' Mr. Knight had said to the two women in a formidable tone.) Henry was still in bed, but awake and reading Smiles with precocious gusto.
'Did the kid tell you all about it, then?'
'The kid,' said Mr. Knight, marking by a peculiar emphasis his dissatisfaction with Tom's choice of nouns, 'was very loyal. I had to drag the story out of him bit by bit. I repeat: why did you do it? Was this your idea of a joke? If so, I can only say——'