“Because he thinks that a sensation there will stop folks asking questions nearer home. If he can raise a dust behind which he can negotiate for those papers, he’s got all he’s looking for just now.”
“Perhaps you don’t feel any interest in those papers,” Henry answered.
“Interest or no interest, I’m not going to skulk any longer behind a petticoat. I’m ashamed to have done it so long.”
“Good boy,” Henry said, making a motion as if to pat him on the shoulder. “I ask again, who’s been stirring up your conscience?”
“Our mother,” said Charles simply.
Henry stopped in his act, and a new look came over his face.
“Does she think it unmanly?” he asked.
“She thinks it cowardly and mean,” Charles said strongly.
Not a sign of anger at these stinging words came into Henry’s face, but instead the look of a child justly reproved.
“I guess she’s right, Charles,” he said. “I guess she’s right. I hadn’t thought of it before, but it is mean and cowardly. I’ll call Cranston off at once.”