"It's Sam's boy," said George in a lower tone.
"So it is," agreed William. "Couldn't blame him if he took some chances. Don't know as he'll get Graham here more'n five minutes quicker'n he could get here with his own car, but it'll relieve the strain for Sam a little to be doing something."
"That's so," admitted George.
At this moment Harold, George's boy, with a pale, frightened face and a pair of very red eyes, came into the room and up to his father. He had no eyes for his Uncle William standing half within the long, crimson folds of the library curtains.
"Dad," said the boy, "did you know I——"
"Eh?" said his father, turning his best ear. Then he saw his son's face. "Why, what's the matter?" he asked anxiously. "Is Syl——"
"Dad," burst out the boy, "I—I was the one that did it. I—threw—Syl!"
He buried his head against his father's arm.
"Why, Harry—Harry, boy——" began his father in consternation.
Uncle William came out from behind the curtain. He thought he had better get out of the room. But as he passed Harold his hand patted the young head. He stooped to the boy's ear. "We all know it was an accident," he whispered.