"Come on—never mind asking questions," closing one eye and bobbing his head, as if he did not wish the girls to hear more.
"All right," returned Richard, and closing the door he followed Boswell up the lane to the road.
"Accidents is bad things, Dick," began the young farmer, as they drew away from the house. "But they will happen, you know—they will happen."
"What do you mean?" asked the boy quickly. "Who's had an accident?"
"Well, you see a man with the rheumatism ain't so sure of his footing as is one who ain't got no such affliction."
"And my father?" began Richard, his heart jumping suddenly into his throat.
"Your father as a painter often climbed long, limbery ladders as he hadn't oughter," continued Boswell soberly.
"Is he—is he dead?" gasped the boy, standing stock-still.
"No, oh, no!" exclaimed the young farmer. "But he had an awful fall, and he's pretty bad. I thought I'd tell you first, 'cause it might shock your mother."
"Where is he?"