“But there might be a special letter for me to deliver,” argued Tom, slyly.
“There’s more boys than one in Barbend, and besides, you haven’t your wheel.”
“My basket was so full of the lilies—”
“Yes, I know, and it shakes them to a frazzle, the little beauties.” She glanced at the tub which made a nest for the lilies. The fragrant blooms now closing their waxy petals looked so cool, comfortable and happy there, it was easy to see that no root had been cruelly dislodged in their gathering, and to understand that a pond lily can make a home anywhere in water.
As always happens when one tries to tell part of the truth, Tom’s story to his mother, that the slight injuries and serious number of scratches had resulted from a toss into a clump of briar bushes, wove a web of complications which only entangled him more as he tried to escape from it. Sam Powers, the man who ran the general store and helped out Postmaster Johnston by supplying the special delivery boy, would not have called at the Whitely home for anything trifling. Even Tom’s mother suspected trouble and perhaps that was one reason why she tried to keep her son home just now. He was young, and to her, very tender; the only child she had, and he constituted her entire family and likewise the object of her entire heroic devotion. As Tom had told Gloria “she fussed a lot”—but even fussing did not always keep Tommy-lad at the end of her neat apron strings. So, with supper over, the table cleared and his mother installed on the side porch where no vines obscured the late twilight as she read the weekly paper, Tom was slipping off, slowly but surely village-ward.
At the creek he met Sidney Brown, a boy who “dressed up” and wore a hat week days.
“Hey, Tom! Sam’s looking for you,” called out Sidney.
“I’m going there,” answered Tom sharply, his wonder increasing. Why had Sam scattered the news? Couldn’t he wait until Tom had his supper down?
Up at the village, the little triangle composed of a group of stores and including the post-office, Tom found things still closed up for supper. Sam Powers’ store was locked, just a little girl was “minding” the grocery store next door, but there was no sign of life around the post-office. Only the bicycle repair shop showed any activity, and that consisted in Abe Nash, the proprietor, spilling some rubbish into a broken soap box at the side door.
Tom hurried over. “Hello, Abner!” he called. “Got that bike fixed yet?”