“Oh, he’ll be back. You see if he isn’t.”
You would not come back. Evening would merge into night—but no Johnny. The night would settle down; there would be weeping, running to and fro, searching and calling, and all the while you would be out in the dark and the dew (and it got cold, too, in the middle of the night) at the mercy of storm and prowling beasts.
When came the morn, it would find the household red-eyed, distraught, and repentant—but still no Johnny.
Possibly the minister, in church, would refer to you during his sermon; not mentioning outright your name, because that would be too direct and hard upon your folks, but nevertheless by an allusion that should be unmistakable. The congregation would know to what he was referring, and all would turn and look at the family pew—the pew of shame.
Your desk at school would be empty. The news of your departure would spread about. Teacher would break down and cry when she reached your name in the roll-call, and as a mark of respect your seat would not be given to another, ever. It would remain untenanted, sacred, an object-lesson to parents. Maybe it would be draped with crape, like the desk of Harry Peters, who died. Say!
Yes, you would run away.
You were unusually quiet and subdued that noon, at dinner. It was the quietness of resolve, the subduedness of pity. Here was the last meal that you ever should eat at this board—and none save yourself knew it. Ah, what a blow was about to fall upon the household. What a secret was locked within your breast.
It seemed almost a missed opportunity. If the folks might only suspect, and try to make advances. Then might you coolly rebuff them, deliberately freeze them out, torture them with shallow denials, and thus enjoy their suspicions while denying them your confidence.
But the meal progressed, and nobody acted curious. That made you mad.
“All raked, John?” asked father, kindly.