“I intended to,” replied Ben; “and we clinched, and I threw him, and his head struck the floor pretty hard, I guess. Anyway, he was knocked unconscious, and Mr. McCrae called the doctor and they took him home.”
Mr. Barriscale set his half-lifted cup of coffee back into the saucer and looked serious.
“How badly was he hurt?” he inquired. “Did the doctor say?”
“No. He said there was a slight concussion of the brain, but he couldn’t tell what it would amount to.”
Mr. Barriscale looked still more serious. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that you’ve got yourself into trouble.”
“What shall I do about it?” inquired Ben, anxiously.
“Well, the least you can do, and probably the most at present, is to go to the boy’s house and inquire about him, and offer apologies, and tender your services for anything you can do.”
“I’m so sorry for his mother,” broke in Mrs. Barriscale. “She’s such a helpless little thing.”
“That’s the trouble with going to the house,” replied Ben. “I’d hate to meet her and have to explain. She’d never understand in the world.”