“All right, I’ll come,” said Johnny, his wounded self-love forgotten at sight of Jim’s troubled face.
He hurried home, and, with the help of an old table knife, he managed to work ten cents out of the jug that he had “set up” for a Christmas present fund. With this he bought the largest picture paper he could find for the money. Then he gathered together a handful of pictures he had been saving for his scrap book, wrapped the knife first in them, then in the large paper, and then tied the whole up securely in a neat brown paper parcel.
When he saw Jim that afternoon he asked him as cautiously as he could about Taffy’s needs, and at last he said,—
“Jim, why haven’t you told mamma about him, and let her help you?”
“It seemed like begging. I didn’t like—” and Jim stopped, looking very much embarrassed.
“Well, I mean to tell her as soon as I go home,” said Johnny, resolutely, “for I know she’ll go and see him, and have something done to make him better, and—Jim, I must go now, but will you please give this to Taffy, with my love?”
And, putting the parcel in Jim’s hand, Johnny turned, and ran home.
But was he really the same Johnny? Had wings grown on his feet? Had his heart been suddenly changed into a feather? He whistled, he sang, he stopped to turn somersets on the grass in the square. No one but his Captain had known of the battle. None, but the Giver of it, knew of the victory.