“I would like to know what got him into such a state,” said the father, groaning, as he picked up his book from the floor. “He used to march upstairs like a little man, and he wasn’t afraid of the dark, or of anything else; but he’s beginning to be afraid of his own shadow. What’s the matter with him?”
Mrs. Thomas shook her head. “I think it’s his constitution,” she said. “I don’t believe he’s as strong as we thought he was.”
“ ‘Strong!’ ” her husband repeated incredulously. “Have I been dreaming, or were you looking on when I was trying to pry him loose from that table-leg?”
“I mean nervously,” she said. “I don’t think his nerves are what they ought to be at all.”
“His nerve isn’t!” he returned. “That’s what I’m talking about! Why was he afraid to step into our dining-room—not thirty feet from where we were sitting?”
“Because it was dark in there. Poor child, he did want his bow and arrow!”
“Well, he got ’em! What did he want ’em for?”
“To protect himself on the way to bed.”
“To keep off burglars on our lighted stairway?”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Thomas. “Burglars or something.”