Baron, thinking of the difficulties which might arise when this willing and capable Atlas was gone, quite agreed with the suggestion. “I’m sure he’s right, mother,” he said, “if he doesn’t mind.”
Up another flight Baron was borne, and at the top the driver turned about haltingly, but still seemingly unaware of having his strength taxed, and called down: “You better see about getting a doctor, mother. He’ll need to have himself looked after. I can put him to bed.”
Baron was able to grin weakly at the driver’s simple generalship—and at the fact that his mother obeyed with nervous promptitude. “That way,” said he, pointing, and then he essayed a little joke. “I think you forgot to carry me around the block a time or two before you started up here, didn’t you?” he asked the driver.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” came back the response. “If I had a twelve-year-old boy who didn’t weigh more than you do, I’d drown him.”
With this the attic room was entered, and Baron was placed carefully on a chair. Then his shoes and other garments were removed with caution, and before he quite realized what had happened, he was in bed.
“I wish I had your strength,” he said, feeling that such service as he had received ought to be acknowledged somehow.
“What? Oh, you’d better leave that to me. I need it and you don’t. I guess that’s about the only thing I’ve got.”
“No, it isn’t. You’ve got the right kind of a heart, too.”
This created instant embarrassment. By way of escape from praise, the big fellow whispered loudly: “Say the word and I’ll jump out and get a bucket of beer before the mother gets back.”
“Beer!” exclaimed Baron. He had always associated beer with festive occasions, and he was quite sure the present moment was not a festive occasion. “I don’t believe I care for any beer—just now.” He believed he had achieved a commendably diplomatic stroke by adding the two last words. He was prompted to add: “But if you’re sure your horses won’t get restless, I’d be glad to have you stay until mother comes.”