“Has Baker been doing anything fresh lately?”
“Anything fresh in the way of brutality is hardly within Mr. Joe Baker’s power. He’s an out-and-out right-down waster, and I told him so yesterday for the fiftieth time.”
“What was he doing?”
“Mauling that tiny mite Polly. Fortunately Harry the Giant heard the child yell, and went to her help just as I got there. I couldn’t help treating Baker to a few home truths, and I wish you’d seen his scowls and heard the pleasant things he promised me.”
“Beast! But I say, Max, don’t put yourself in his way in a lonely lane on a dark night. He doesn’t love you.”
Max’s expressive “Ugh!” closed the subject.
The tea-table, presided over by Mrs. Morland, was surrounded that evening by a lively little company. Austin and Max gave a mirthful version of their encounter with Mrs. Brown, concerning the beef-tea they had ventured to criticise; and quiet Jim, whose sense of humour was undergoing cultivation, chuckled over the boys’ small witticisms. Max’s long walk had not robbed cricket of attraction. As soon as tea had been cleared away, the youngsters dragged Jim off to the Common; and even Mrs. Morland was cajoled into coming with them to look on and keep the score.
But it was a really tired-out lad who, when dusk was deepening into darkness, bade Frances and Austin good-bye on the further side of the Common. Max would not let his friends come further, for he meant to cover a good part of the remaining distance at a swinging trot, which might, he hoped, compel his aching legs to do their duty. And for a time they did it nobly; but presently fatigue compelled the boy to slow down to a steady walk, which made reflection easier. Max’s thoughts were usually good company, and on this particular evening he had abundant food for them.
Max Brenton was nearing his fifteenth birthday, and his busy, capable life held promise of early maturity. Though still a very boyish boy, he had in his many quiet hours developed a power of concentration and resolute temper, which inclined him to wider schemes of activity than boyhood often learns to contemplate. It was only the strength and depth of his affections—in which alone Max was child-like—that rendered it possible for him to look forward without impatience to a career consecrated to the service of Woodend.
Max would have preferred a broader outlook and a brisker scene for his energies. But he knew that a partnership with his son was Dr. Brenton’s wildest dream of future happiness and prosperity, and Max could not imagine himself bringing defeat to his father’s plan. How often had they talked it over together! and how gaily had Max anticipated his triumphant return to his little country home with the honours of the schools bound thick about his brows! By that time Dad would want someone to do the night-work, and share the responsibility of difficult cases; and who should help him, who ever had helped him, but Max?