“I struck him after the game was over. That was what ailed him.”
“And they never told me a word! Struck him, Don—with what?”
“A baseball bat,” whispered the unfortunate lad. “Oh, I’m a bad, wicked boy! I’m not fit to be your son! I wish I’d never been born!”
Then he burst into tears, which, more than anything else, were compelled by the relief in learning that he had not the crime of homicide on his soul, and he was shaken by a perfect tempest of emotion.
The doctor lifted his remorseful son and led the boy into his private office, closing the door behind them. And there in the seclusion of that room Don unbosomed himself fully, holding nothing back, and found relief and consolation and forgiveness.
“I know I was all wrong; I see it now,” said Don, when he had ended. “Father, what can I do?”
“You must go to Renwood, confess everything as you have confessed to me, humble yourself and ask his forgiveness. That is the least you can do. In this there is one good feature, at least; Bentley’s story will prove to the other boys that they were wrong in believing you destroyed the football and the suits. Will you go to see Renwood, my son?”
“I’ll go, father—I’ll do anything! And as long as I live I’ll never forget the lesson. I was to blame for everything!”
“You were to blame in letting your temper get the best of you, but you were led into wrong-doing by your bad companion. Now you can see the danger in associating with such a fellow.”
“I’m going to see Renwood to-night—now!” cried Don, springing up. “I can’t sleep unless I see him!”