“Look here, Bob,” she said, laughing, “I was bothered a good deal last night. But I’ve thought it all out. I want you to be like other boys.” Then her face grew sober. “You are old enough now to know what is right and what is wrong. Your father and I have coddled you until we’ve made you, almost, an invalid. We wouldn’t have let you do what you did in that storm for worlds. But I’m glad you did—I’m even proud of you. I’ve made up my mind it’s what you need to make a man of you. You can go back to camp. From now on, I’m goin’ to let you take care of yourself.”
Tears came into Bob’s eyes, but he caught his mother in his arms and gave her a kiss she never forgot.
“As for Mac Gregory,” continued Mrs. Balfour, “I can’t believe that any one who did what he did is really bad. I believe the impulse that made you boys take him back into your club was a good one. And I believe Mrs. Allen will think so, too.”
That meant another kiss. When Bob walked into the breakfast room, he had already forgotten that he was a hero. But many good-natured greetings at once recalled the newspaper story. It was Bob’s baptism of notoriety. With boyish awkwardness, all he would say was: “Well, we did get pretty wet.”
The moment breakfast was over he rushed his mother to the gallery.
“For goodness sake, mother,” he whispered, “get your hat and let’s get out of this.”
With a smile Mrs. Balfour did so, and she and Bob were just leaving the house when a messenger came up the steps with a telegram. It was addressed to Mrs. Balfour. She opened it and read:
“Notified by reporters Robert in wreck. Consult best physicians. If able, bring home. Shall I come?
“Henry Balfour.”
Mrs. Balfour laughed, and wrote the following reply: