There was no mistaking the tone. It meant business in spite of the aggressive cheerfulness. He turned moodily and stamped out of the room. As the door closed, he found an outlet for the disappointment in half mumbled ejaculations.
"Mean old thing. Never lets a fellow do what he wants. Just as well have let 'em go until afternoon. What's the use of tidying a room, anyway? Always gets dirty again."
Half-way up the carpeted stairs, he tripped in his blind anger and bruised his knee. The pain was sufficient to make the tears—the easy flowing tears which had longed for an outlet from the start of the interview—stream from his eyes.
In a trice, he turned, threw back the door, and fled to the haven of his mother's lap. His arms sought clumsily to encircle her neck. She dropped the pan of apples on the floor, and gathered him, a sobbing little bundle, into her comforting arms.
"What is it, son?"
"My knee." One uncertain hand indicated the injured spot.
"Ah, son, son," she laughed softly with just a hint of a catch in her voice as she rubbed the injury gently, "is it only when you want something that you love me like this?"
He shook his head and snuggled closer in vehement protest. They rocked to and fro for some moments. Gradually the sobbing ceased and he lay blissfully motionless until she looked down at him. Then he said sheepishly,
"If I do the lawn now, can I leave the porch and my room until afternoon?"
Mrs. Fletcher gave her son an amused shake. He sensed hope for his cause and began to weep anew.