“It is not your doing. It is no concern of yours,” said Dr. May, walking impetuously into the garden. “I find my boy ill, broken down, shattered—it is the usage of this crew of fellows—what right have I to conceal it—leave other people’s sons to be so served?”
“I believe they did so to Tom out of ill-will to me,” said Norman, “and because they thought he had ratted.”
“Hush! don’t argue against it,” said Dr. May, almost petulantly. “I have stood a great deal to oblige you, but I cannot stand this. When it is a matter of corruption, base cruelty—no, Norman, it is not right—not another word!”
Norman’s words had not been many, but he felt a conviction that, in spite of the dismay and pain to himself, Dr. May ought to meet with submission to his judgment, and he acquiesced by silence.
“Don’t you see,” continued the doctor, “if they act thus, when your back is turned, what is to happen next half? ‘Tis not for Tom’s sake, but how could we justify it to ourselves, to expose other boys to this usage?”
“Yes,” said Norman, not without a sigh. “I suppose it must be.”
“That is right,” said Dr. May, as if much relieved. “I knew you must see it in that light. I do not mean to abuse your confidence.”
“No, indeed,” answered Norman warmly.
“But you see yourself, that where the welfare of so many is at stake, it would be wickedness—yes, wickedness—to be silent. Could I see that little fellow prostrated, trembling in my arms, and think of those scamps inflicting the same on other helpless children—away from their homes!”
“I see, I see!” said Norman, carried along by the indignation and tenderness that agitated his father’s voice in his vehemence—“it is the only thing to be done.”