CHAPTER IV
“Strength from Weakness”
Under the stimulus of his glass of port, Martin Moreland was wondering about his son—his idolized son. He climbed the stairway and stood at the foot of Junior’s bed until the lad’s mother had finished fussing over him. Then he said to her roughly: “Now you go on to bed. Junior and I want a few minutes to talk this thing out.”
When the door had closed after his wife, Martin Moreland drew a chair to the side of the bed, and sitting down, said with visible effort to be calm: “Exactly how badly are you hurt, Junior?”
Junior answered truthfully: “Like the devil so far as pain goes. I reckon I’ll be all right to-morrow, but I don’t know whether I will or not.”
“Had I better get Doctor Grayson?” asked Mr. Moreland.
“I don’t see what he could do that hasn’t been done,” said Junior. “You know how nice Mrs. Spellman is. She washed and washed; she put on camphor that just about raised the hair on my head; she bound me carefully with clean cloths. What more could old Grayson do? You better let me go to sleep now and see how I feel in the morning.”
“All right,” said Martin Moreland.
His tones were so very grim that Junior glanced at him apprehensively; he realized that matters were very far from “all right” with his father. He could see him gripping his shaking hands one over each knee in order to hold himself steady.
Then came what he had to say: “As a rule, Junior, I am rather easy with you because you are my son and I want you to get some fun out of life before you begin the work and worry that will come when you are a man; but I am not feeling particularly easy at this minute because I happen to realize that a blow aimed at you is really intended for me. It should be my head that’s bleeding right now instead of yours. Out with it! Who threw that brick?”