"Better?" Mrs. Stout did not understand.
"I hope—"
"He ain't any better'n he ought to be, nor any worse'n some other boys I know of," said Mrs. Stout.
"But is he not sick?" asked Miss Wallace.
"Sick? Good land! No; he's eatin' his supper now," replied Mrs. Stout. Miss Wallace sighed, some one had been lying. "Who said he was sick?" asked Mrs. Stout, suspiciously.
"I understood—" Miss Wallace began, and then hesitated for a moment. "He was absent this afternoon," she continued, "and I understood Paul and Wendell to say that he was sick."
"Absent was he, from school?" said Mrs. Stout. "And them two boys lied about it? It won't happen again, Miss Wallace." At that moment a man walked past. Mrs. Stout peered into the darkness for a moment, and then called out:
"Hello, is that you, Willie Flint?"
"Yes. Oh, good evening, Mrs. Stout," replied Will, whom it proved to be, as he turned and retraced his steps.