Chap’s face flushed, and he clinched his fist.
“Do you suppose,” he said to Phil, “that he got his back up in that way because you didn’t send the gun to him?”
But Phil made no answer. He still stood with his eyes fixed on the floor. This was the most cruel blow he had ever received, and it stunned him.
Phœnix said nothing, but his mind was filled with an earnest wish that he had not stopped at the post-office.
“Chap,” said Phil, directly, in a husky voice that did not seem like his own, “I won’t bother you to stay here to-night, but I would like you to come round in the morning. Good-by, all!”
And he went into the house with the letter in his hand.
Helen and the two boys walked down the porch-steps without a word. But when they were some distance from the house, Chap suddenly stopped and shook his fist.
“The fellow that ought to have his head punched worst of all,” he cried, “is that uncle!”
Half an hour later Phil was sitting gloomily on the porch, looking over the fields, when a man came through the hall and out of the front door to speak to him.
“I am Jenny’s father,” said the man. “She said you were a little hard pushed and needed help, and so I came over with her.”