He glanced around desperately for a window through which he might essay a dive, when he spied
a door that he had not previously noticed; and quickly opening it he peered into what seemed to be a deserted bedroom. He stepped inside, softly closing the door after him. As he stood listening he heard the sound of excited voices in the parlor. Then he heard a rustling from the vicinity of the bed, and the deep voice of Mrs. Hotchkiss-Harger saying languidly:
"I'm not asleep, Bridget.... Put the tray on the table.... I don't feel as if I should ever be able to taste another morsel of food ... but I suppose you may as well leave it.... And, Bridget, I seem to feel a draft from that window; would you mind closing it."
Sube glanced gratefully at the partly opened French window, and closed it, but not until he was on the outside. Then he threw himself over the railing of the veranda and jumped to the ground, and he was nearly a block away before he so much as paused for breath.
Then it suddenly came to him that it was bitterly cold, that there was snow on the ground, and that his overcoat and cap were peacefully reposing on the bed in the Guilfords' chilly guest chamber.
If the weather had been a little more favorable he might have held out; he might even have started for parts unknown. But the combination of mental anguish and physical discomfort was too much for him. He simply could not go back to Guilfords'. He had burned his bridges behind him too effectually to permit that. The frosty night air seemed to have numbed his hitherto ready imagination, for he could think of only one other place to go; and that was home.
But what could he tell his father and mother? They surely would demand an explanation. And for once he found himself utterly unable to think of a suitable lie. Then suddenly like a flash from the sky came an inspiration.
Why not try the truth!
George Washington had tried it once on a tree-cutting scrape, and had made it work. And why couldn't he?