Running to Waste: The Story of a Tomboy

by George M. Baker

The captain did not leave the house, but gave his whole attention to the preparation of the speech with which he was to meet his long-absent son. On one thing he was determined—he would be a father still. He had been disobeyed; it was for the son to ask pardon. He would be cool, dignified, collected. He watched the bridge road uneasily. At half past eight he saw Becky leave the gate with her school-books in her hands, and after came Harry. He left the window at once. It was coming; it would soon be over. He sat on the sofa, covered his eyes with his hand, and waited. He did not need to look—he felt their coming. Now they were on the bridge; now they had passed the school-house, were crossing the road, were at the door. Yes, a ring! Mrs. Thompson rose from her chair, looked at her husband, with his face hidden, smiled, and passed into the entry. Be a man, captain; be a father, cool, dignified, collected! The door opened; the captain rose to his feet.

“Good morning, captain. Here I am, and here’s Harry.” Becky Sleeper’s voice.

He looked at her smiling face, beyond her to the manly form of his son, advancing with outstretched hand, then grasped that hand, and shook it with nervous energy.

“Harry, my boy, welcome home. I have been a poor father to you. Forgive and try me again!”

He burst into tears, and sobbed like a child. The hard heart was melted, and the cool, collected, dignified plans, on which he had so much depended, were dissipated at the touch of Nature.

Mrs. Thompson quietly drew Becky into the dining-room, and shut the door, leaving father and son to become better acquainted. The conference was so long that Becky slipped out of the side door, fearful of being late to school, after a promise given to Mrs. Thompson that she would come in and take tea with the reunited family. She kept her promise, and had the satisfaction of seeing Harry in his right place, the captain in a jovial fit of good nature, and Mrs. Thompson’s handsome face radiant with the warm glow of a contented heart.

The captain was not quite content with this quiet reconciliation, but must kill the fatted calf in honor of his son’s return; and three days afterwards the good people of Cleverly were surprised by the intelligence that the Thompsons were to give a party.

And such a party! The Thompson mansion was lighted from bottom to top, and along the entire reach of the various outbuildings, the trees were hung with lanterns. A blaze of light outside, a scene of joyous festivity within. Nobody was forgotten. Parson Arnold, in clerical black and white, with his wife in a new silk dress,—the gift of Mrs. Thompson,—benignly circulated among their flock. Mr. Drinkwater was there, crowding Deacon Proctor into a corner, with the discussion of a theological point. Poor Mr. York was there, with a feeble cough, and dilated nostrils eagerly sniffing the air, as the door of the dining-room occasionally opened, while his buxom wife was busily at work with Silly, in the kitchen; and little Jenny York was there, perched on the arm of a sofa, drinking in with rare delight all this flow of mirth, and light, and gay attire, and pleasant conversation. The scholars, dressed in their best, played and romped about the many-roomed mansion to their hearts’ content. And Teddy, the captain’s favorite, dressed in a new suit,—his patron’s gift,—proudly moved among the company, with his sister on his arm. And Becky—light and joyous Becky—was the queen; everywhere she met smiles and kind words of congratulation, for, somehow, her share in the bringing about of this happy night had been noised abroad, and all were anxious to do her honor. A dozen times that night Captain Thompson had clasped her hand.