“I didn’t hear the doorbell,” said Bobby to himself as he walked slowly downstairs. “How could he come ’thout ringing the bell?”
Bobby never doubted that Mr. Bennett had come. And he had. He had come in his small work car and Father Blossom had seen him through the window and had gone to the door to save him waiting in the cold. That was why Bobby had not heard the doorbell.
Although he walked as slowly as he could, Bobby finally came to the door of the living-room. There was no one there for Mother Blossom, supposing that Mr. Bennett had come to talk business with Father Blossom, had excused herself and gone upstairs to write a letter.
“In here, Son,” said Father Blossom’s voice, and Bobby saw they were in the little back room where Father Blossom had his desk.
Mr. Bennett sat facing the door and Father Blossom sat at his desk. The carpenter was a short, heavy man with a red face and a deep, hoarse voice. He had small, quick blue eyes and just now they looked angry.
“Bobby,” said Father Blossom quietly, “this is Mr. Bennett whose shop burned down last night. And he seems to think that you, and some other boys, are responsible for the fire.”
“Think!” snorted Mr. Bennett. “Think! I don’t think anything about it; I know those kids set the place on fire. And they’ve got to pay for it.”
Bobby had got as far as the desk and there he stood, feeling very unhappy and a little ashamed.
“Were you in the shop at all, Bobby?” asked Father Blossom keenly.
“Yes, Daddy,” replied Bobby bravely, raising his eyes. “I went in after the football. The window was open. And I didn’t touch a thing. None of us did. Except the cat. We stroked her and made her purr.”