“Let the old handkerchief go,” he muttered. “I’ll find out how much I’m cut.”
He succeeded in entering the house quietly, and was hurrying up to his room, when his father called to him:
“Is that you, Don?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
“I thought you were in bed.”
“I am just going to bed now, sir.”
“Good-night, my boy.”
“Good-night, father.”
He did not wish to stand before his father again that day, for he felt that he could not carry out his determination to make a confession of the truth, and a discovery of his injury might lead Dr. Scott to ask him unpleasant questions.
In his room, he flung his clothes over the back of a chair, hurriedly washed the blood from his hand, and examined his fingers, finding that three of them had been cut, but not seriously.