“No,” said Tommy, without anger; “I borrowed fifty dollars from friends.”
Mr. Leigh turned his head away. Then he walked out of the room.
They had very little to say to each other at dinner. It was after Tommy had ordered a taxi to take him and his trunk—if it had not been for the trunk he would not have dreamed of spending so much—to the station that Mr. Leigh said:
“Thomas, I wish to explain to you—”
“No, dad, please don't! There was such pain in the boy's voice that Mr. Leigh took a step toward him. Tommy was suffocating.
“My son, there is no need of your feeling that you—”
“I don't! I understand perfectly!” Tommy shook his head—without looking at his father.
Mr. Leigh walked out of the room. Tommy took a step toward him and halted abruptly—something was choking him. He began to pace up and down the room, dreading the news of the arrival of the taxi and yet desiring it above all things.
Presently Mr. Leigh returned He had in his hand a little package. He gave it to Tommy, who took it mechanically.
“My son,” said Mr. Leigh, in a low voice, “your uncle Thomas gave this to your mother—one hundred dollars in gold. She kept it for you. She wrote on it, 'For Tommy's first scrape.' It is not my money. It was hers. It is yours. Take it—for your first scrape. And, my son—” The old man's speech seemed to fail him. Presently he went on: “You are in no scrape. Your mother—Well, I have done my duty as I saw it. And, Thomas—”