“It is a sad story, Tom.”
“Yes. My poor father’s fate is often in my mind. I cannot bring him back to life, but I hope some day to learn something more of his last days, and, if possible, of the manner in which he died.”
“Couldn’t Mr. Simpson tell you something about it?”
“He called on mother after his return, but gave her no definite information. I am sometimes tempted to call on him and inquire on my own account.”
“I would if I were you.”
“I will, then. I won’t speak to mother about it, because it always makes her sad to speak about father’s death.”
“There’s the last stick, Harry,” said Tom, a few moments later. “Now I sha’n’t have to keep you waiting any longer. I have only to put on my coat, and get my skates.”
“Better wear your overcoat, Tom. It is quite cold.”
“Oh, I’m tough,” said Tom, lightly. “Besides, I can skate better without it.”
He didn’t like to name the real reason, that he had no overcoat fit to wear. The one he had worn the previous winter was very ragged, and he could not spare money to buy a new one.