Why did He Go?
There was a stirring of wind in the willows at the side of the creek. Some wreckage swung gently against a box laden with tinware that was taking a hurried voyage down-stream, and the collision brought a chiming protest from the tinware that made Pam think of church bells in England. She struggled for strength to speak, and tried to lift her hands to clutch at something that would hold her back from that awful gulf into which she had so nearly slipped. What was it the boy had to tell her? and why, oh why, had he made grimaces at her on that day when the inquiry was held on the remains found in the forest?
“Better, old girl?” Jack’s voice sounded so waggly and anxious that Pam could have laughed for sheer joy because he cared so much; the love in it warmed her like sunshine, and she strove with all her might to keep from slipping down, down, down!
The noisy crying broke out again. Then she heard a voice that was fierce and passionate demanding:
“Can’t you do something to bring her round? Dab water in her face or something like that!”
“It seems to me that she has had too much water already,” replied Jack’s troubled voice. “If I could leave her I would run back to Mrs. Buckle’s. Don Grierson is there, and he would go and fetch his father for me quick!”
“That he would, you bet! They say he just about worships the ground she walks on, and he has always been a regular stand-offish sort.” A hot feeling like a blush surged over Pam, and she made another effort to open her eyes, to speak and let them know how she was, but before she could achieve so much, the boy had burst out again: “I say, do fan her or something! Burnt feathers is good for swooning folks, Miss Gittins says, but we ain’t got no burnt feathers here!”
“What is it you have got to tell me? Say it, quick!” The authority in Pam’s voice was not to be set aside. She struggled to rise, then felt Jack’s arms under her, holding her up to a sitting posture. A broad stream of sunshine smote her eyes, making her blink; then she opened her eyes again, and saw the boy whom she had tried to save sitting on the ground at a little distance, his small thin face all wrinkled and drawn with pain, his eyes pathetic with distress.
“What is it that you ought to have told me?” she asked with hurry in her voice, some instinct telling her that this thing, whatever it was, mattered a great deal to her, and she must know without delay.
The boy hesitated, a gleam of fear came into his eyes, then he blurted out in a great hurry: