“Ugh!” exclaimed Joel, burrowing deeper. Suddenly he threw himself up straight and regarded Tom out of flashing eyes. “I've killed Phronsie,” he cried huskily, “and you know it, and won't tell me!”
“Joel Pepper!” cried Tom, frightened half out of his wits, and rushing to him; “lie down again,” laying a firm hand on his shoulder.
“I won't,” roared Joel wildly, and shaking him off. “You're keeping something from me, Tom.”
“You're an idiot,” declared Tom, thinking it quite time to be high-handed, “a first-class, howling idiot, Pepper, to act so. If you don't believe me, when I say I haven't anything to keep back from you, I'll go straight upstairs. Some one will tell me.”
“Hurry along,” cried Joel feverishly. But Tom had gotten no further than the hall, when Joel howled, “Come back, Tom, I'll try—to—to bear it.” And Tom flying back, Joel was buried as far as his face went, in Mamsie's cushion, sobbing as if his heart would break.
“It will disturb—them,” he said gustily, in between his sobs.
Tom Beresford let him cry on, and thrust his hands in his pockets, to stalk up and down the room. He longed to whistle, to give vent to his feelings; but concluding that wouldn't be understood, but be considered heartless, he held himself in check, and counted the slow minutes, for this was deadly tiresome, and beginning to get on his nerves. “I shall screech myself before long, I'm afraid.”
At last Joel rolled over. “Come here, do, Tom,” and when Tom got there, glad enough to be of use, Joel pulled him down beside the sofa, and gripped him as only Joel could. “Do you mind, Tom? I want to hang on to something.”
“No, indeed,” said Tom heartily, vastly pleased, although he was nearly choked. “Now you're behaving better.” He patted him on the back. “Hark, Joe! The doctor's laughing!”
They could hear it distinctly now, and as long as he lived, Joel thought, he never heard a sweeter sound. He sprang to his feet, upsetting Tom, who rolled over on his back to the floor.