She promised.
The girls were dismissed for lunch at twelve, and as Pelham had only half an hour, their mother usually met them at the big gate, and walked back to the house with them. Nell waited till Sue had run ahead, then betrayed the morning's confidence with maternal conscientiousness.
Mary went at once to her drawer,—she guessed how Pelham had gotten funds. She put on her hat and hurried in to the office, carrying with her the boy's note.
Her lips were set, and her voice difficult to control, when she faced her husband across the bevelled glass that covered his desk. "Read this, Paul," handing him the crumpled message.
It was written painstakingly in the boy's unformed upright script, a youthful imitation of his father's distinctive hand:
"Dearest mother:—
I can not stand any moar whipings. Hollis can have my things wen he growes up. I will come back as soon as father is ded.
Affexionately your son,
Pelham Judson."
Before he had time to comment, the mother spoke. "You know I advised against this—this brutal, cold-blooded punishment of my son. This is what has come of it."
"Where is he?——"
She bit her lip to keep from crying. "He's gone; he may be dead, for all I know. He told Nell he might go to Jackson...."
"I'll go down to the station. He can't leave before the 4:17."