"What happened?" asked Helen.
"Oh, well, I'd grown big then, and I got sick of it all at once, you know. He never tried to touch me again, after that."
Helen recalled distinctly that very unusual occasion when she had been absent for a whole week, at the time of a sister's death. Harmon had seemed ill when she had returned, and she remembered noticing a great change in his manner towards the boy only a few months before he had become insane.
"What did you do?" she asked.
"I hit him. I hit him badly, a good many times. Then I put him to bed. I knew he wouldn't tell."
Archie smiled slowly at the recollection of beating his father, and looked down at his fist. Helen felt as though she were going mad herself. It was all horribly unnatural,--the father's cruel brutality to his afflicted son, the son's ferocious vengeance upon his father when he had got his strength.
"You see," continued Archie, "I knew exactly how many times he had hit me altogether, and I gave all the hits back at once. That was fair, anyhow."
Helen could not remember that he had ever professed to be sure of an exact number from memory.
"How could you know just how many times--" She spoke faintly, and stopped, half sick.
"Blocks," answered Archie. "I dropped a little blot of ink on one of my blocks every time he hit me. I used to count the ones that had blots on them every morning. When they all had one blot each, I began on the other side, till I got round again. Some had blots on several sides at last. I don't know how many there were, now; but it was all right, for I used to count them every morning and remember all day. There must have been forty or fifty, I suppose. But I know it was all right. I didn't want to be unfair, and I hit him slowly and counted. Oh,"--his eyes brightened suddenly,--"I've got the blocks here. I'll go and get them, and we can count them together. Then you'll know exactly."