“The judge?” I interrupted.
“No, Isabella; he broke his arm.”
“He broke his arm?”
“Cranking his Ford.” The boy made a windmill motion. “He was just starting out.”
“Coming here?”
“I don’t know. My mother said likely—She leave me come to tell you, but she said it was just as well.”
“Just as well?”
“Yes, she was helpin’ over there to-night; everybody is. He said to tell you if you was afraid to stay here alone all night, to come back down to his house with me; but my mother says she wouldn’t if she was you, and anyway, there ain’t room.”
For a moment I was too stunned to be angry. Then I thought I might as well take the matter easily. The child had no idea what he was repeating.
“Tell the judge it will be all right,” I answered. “And tell your mother— Don’t tell your mother anything!”