XI
“Well, Billy Sewall, have you taken your young friend home and put him to bed?”
The questioner was Ralph Fernald, sitting with the rest of the family—or those members of it who were not
still attending to the wants of little children—before the fireplace, talking things over. They had been there for nearly an hour, since the service, but Sewall had only just come in.
“I’ve taken him home,” Sewall replied. “But there was no putting him to bed. I think he’ll sit up till morning—too happy to sleep, the fine old man.”
They had saved the big armchair for him, in the very centre of the circle, but he would have none of it. He went over to a corner of the inglenook, and dropped upon the floor at his sister Margaret’s feet, with his arm upon her knee. When somebody protested Guy interfered in his defence.
“Let him alone,” said he. “He gets enough of prominent positions. If he wants to sit on the fence and kick his heels a while, let him. He’s certainly earned the right to do as he
pleases to-night. By George!—talk about magnificent team-work! If ever I saw a sacrifice play I saw it to-night.”
Sewall shook his head. “You may have seen team-work,” said he, “though Mr. Blake was the most of the team. But there was no sacrifice play on my part. It was simply a matter of passing the ball to the man who could run. I should have been down in four yards—if I ever got away at all.”
John Fernald looked at his wife with a puzzled smile. “What sort o’ talk is that?” he queried. Then he went on: “I suppose you boys are giving the credit to Elder Blake—who ought to have it. But I give a good deal to William Sewall, whose eyes were sharp enough to see what we’ve been too blind to find out—that the old man was the one who could deal with us and make us see light on our quarrel. He did make