"Yes, it didn't look right to me," Mr. Frost continued. "It was the same as betting that you four girls couldn't keep from talking for a week. My conscience wouldn't let me be a party to anything of that sort. But—"
The pause after the "but" was prolonged. Amy searched her vocabulary for words that would do justice to the occasion, but Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back was continuing before she knew what she wanted to say.
"Having your life saved is a different thing. That slate had an edge on it like a meat ax, and coming through the air the way it was, it would have cleft my head open like it had been an egg shell. My widow could have got damages all right, but that wouldn't have helped me out."
They had reached Amy's door by now. "Got pen and ink handy?" asked Mr. Frost, with a marked change of manner.
"Yes," said Amy tonelessly, and opened the door for him. She led the way to the writing desk, and pointed out the articles he required. Mr. Philander Frost, seating himself, wrote out a check for a hundred dollars, payable to Amy Lassell or order.
"There," he said as he reached for the blotter. "Can't nobody no matter how sensitive their consciences are, find any fault with that. A hundred dollars ain't any too much to pay for having your life saved."
And then the ink had a narrow escape from being overturned, for Amy flung her arms around the old gentleman's neck and hugged him. "Uncle Philander!" she screamed, "You're a prince."
And that is how little Myrtle Burns was assured of her year in high school, and Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back was adopted, unreservedly, by four unusually attractive nieces.