CHAPTER II
TOMMY-LAD
Just as any boy or girl, or any boy and girl, could deceive a mother about a thing like that! Tom Whitely was painted up like an Indian before he even had his supper, and not satisfied with the iodine and arnica in the house, Mrs. Whitely had asked Pete Duncan to get more from the drug store when he went in to the post-office for the evening mail.
“Tommy-lad, you’re too reckless altogether,” she scolded affectionately. The bandage on the bruised arm was patted gently but fondly, and then the sleeve was slipped over it without so much as brushing the lint.
“’Tisn’t anything, mother,” protested the boy repeatedly.
“Too reckless and anxious for the dollar. Why, son, you don’t have to do all the supporting, you know. Mother is able and quite popular yet with them who didn’t have the chance she had to learn how to sew.” Mrs. Whitely was shaking her brown head with a show of pardonable pride, and anyone could have seen by the shadows that made her blue eyes look gray, just whom Tommy looked like.
“That’s all right, ma, but Summer’s the time, you know,” argued the boy. There was a favorite supper simmering on the stove, its appetizing odor provoking Tommy to impatience.
“And old Sam Powers was here a while ago. Didn’t say what he wanted, but from the way he worked his handsome face,” she chuckled, “it must have been something mighty important.”
“I’ll have to go up—”
“Now, we’ll just see about that, Tommy-lad,” interrupted the well-meaning little mother. How could she know Tommy was anxious to go out and see about that bicycle chain? She couldn’t and he didn’t want her to.