“All right, dad, if you say so. Lucky he didn’t hear what I was sayin’ about seein’ Frank Dunbar,” thought Zeke. “He’d be mad.”
Presently there was another caller at Philip’s room, or, rather, prison. This time it was Mr. Tucker himself. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Philip looked up inquiringly.
“Supper’s ready,” announced Joe. “You can come down if you want to.”
Philip was provided with an appetite, but he did not relish the idea of going downstairs and joining the rest of Mr. Tucker’s boarders. It would seem like a tacit admission that he was one of their number. Of course, he couldn’t do without eating, but he had a large apple in his pocket when captured, and he thought that this would prevent his suffering from hunger for that night, at least, and he did not mean to spend another at the Norton poorhouse. The problem of to-morrow’s supply of food might be deferred till then.
“I don’t care for any supper,” answered Philip.
“Perhaps you expect your meals will be brought up to you?” said Mr. Tucker, with a sneer.
“I haven’t thought about it particularly,” said Philip coolly.
“You may think you’re spitin’ me by not eatin’ anything,” observed Mr. Tucker, who was rather alarmed lest Philip might have made up his mind to starve himself.
This would be embarrassing, for it would make an investigation necessary.
“Oh, no,” answered Philip, smiling; “that never came into my mind.”