"You aren't going," declared Joel, savagely, and stopping long enough to snap his fingers at Ben, "no-sir-ee, not a single step!" And despite all Ben's efforts he pranced off with a final jump that defied pursuit.
Ben stood perfectly still for a moment, then strode off up to his room, where he locked the door fast, went over and sat on the side of the bed, and buried his face in his hands.
How long he sat there he never knew. The first thing that brought him to himself was Polly's voice, and her fingers drumming on the door.
"Bensie, are you here? O dear me! Do open the door."
Ben took up his head at first with the wild thought that he wouldn't answer. But then, it was Polly calling, and such a thing as a locked door between them would never do. So he staggered off as best he might, not seeing his pale face in the mirror as he went by, and slowly turned the key.
"Oh, Ben! O dear me! What is it?" Polly cried, quite aghast at his face. She huddled up to him and grasped his arm. "Tell me, Ben," and the fright at seeing him thus drove every bit of color from her face.
"Nothing," said Ben, shortly, "that is—"
"Oh, now you are sick," cried Polly, quite wildly, and with another look into his face, usually so ruddy, she tore off her hands and raced toward the stairs. "I shall call Mamsie."
"Polly, Polly!" cried Ben, rushing out after her, "you must not call Mamsie. I'll tell you all about it, Polly. Polly, do come back."
But she didn't hear anything but the first words, that Mamsie must not be called, and feeling more sure than ever by this that Ben was really sick, she redoubled her speed and rushed into Mother Fisher's room, crying, "Oh, Mamsie, do come quickly; something is the matter with Ben."