So the letter went on its cruel mission.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE YOUNG RUNAWAYS.
In a small, plainly furnished room in Kansas City sat two boys of sixteen and seventeen. One of them was Victor Wentworth, the other his schoolmate and the companion of his flight, Arthur Grigson.
Victor looked despondent. He had a pleasant but weak face, in which little or no resemblance could be traced to his father. The latter’s hard nature was wholly wanting in Victor. He resembled his mother, now dead, who had been completely under the domination of her husband.
“I wonder if our letters will come to-day, Arthur,” he said anxiously.
“I hope so. I expected before this that your father would telegraph money.”
“You don’t know my father, Arthur,” said Victor sadly. “No doubt he is very angry with me, and I am not sure that he will send me any money at all.”
“You are an only son, are you not?”