Bill Tooley, under kind care, amid quiet and pleasant surroundings, and aided by his own strong constitution, was in a fair way to recover his health and strength. The fever had left him, and he was able to sit up for a few minutes at a time. The only serious trouble seemed to be with his right leg. It gave him great pain, and was threatened with a permanent lameness. He already seemed a different boy from what he had been, and would hardly be recognized for the bully of a short time before. He gave way to occasional outbursts of impatient anger, but these were always quieted by the gentle presence and soothing words of either Mrs. Sterling or little Helen; and in his rough way he would express sorrow for them by saying, "Don't yer mind me, mum; I don' mean nothin'; only dis ere blessed leg gits de best of me sometimes." Or to Helen, "Don't yer be afeared, sissy; I know I talks awful ugly; but I ain't. It's only de pain of de leg breakin' out in bad words."
The meeting between father and son that night, when Derrick persuaded Monk Tooley to go home with him, was curious to witness. Bill was as fond of his father, in his way, as the latter was of him, and had been very anxious when he knew he was in the mine at the time of the explosion. Both were much affected when Monk stepped to his son's bedside; but they had no words to express their feelings. The father said,
"Well, lad, how goes it?"
Bill answered, "Middlin', feyther. I heerd yer got blowed up."
"Well, yer see I didn't. Job Taskar's killed, though."
"Better him nor anoder."
"Yes. Yer want ter be gittin' outen dis, son. Times is hard, an' idlin's expensive."
"All right, feyther; I'll soon be in de breaker agin."
This was all; but the two were assured of each other's safety and well-being, and for them that was enough.
Monk Tooley accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Sterling, and departed with a very warm feeling in his heart towards those who were doing so much for his boy.