“How do you find him?”
“Oh, he comes wandering in, like the prodigal son, after he has fed upon husks for a while. Maybe he has been unable to face the ordeal of a separation from Ellen, and has gone with her.”
“I wish he hadn’t gone while father and mother are away. I feel, somehow, as though it were my fault.”
“Now stop worrying, Barbara; he’ll turn up. My only fear is that you’ll receive him with open arms when he arrives. Just you plan to be a little severe on him, and we’ll cure him of his habit before mother gets home.”
But in spite of Jack’s reassurance, Barbara was troubled, and as she cleared away the remains of the children’s feast, she caught herself looking out of the window, and listening for the click of the gate. At two o’clock, when the last dish was put away, the Kid had not returned; at three he was not in sight; at four none of the neighbors had seen him; at five she left the anxious seat at the front window for the kitchen, with reluctance; and at six it was a worried-looking Barbara who greeted Jack’s return from baseball practice.
“Hasn’t the little rascal turned up yet?” asked the boy. “I think I’ll go out and take a look at some of his favorite haunts. Now, Barbara, if he comes while I’m away, don’t you play prodigal with him!”
The dinner was eaten, and cleared away. At seven there was no Kid. At eight the other children went to bed without him. At nine o’clock Jack returned with no news. Even he showed anxiety as Barbara met him at the door with expectant face.
“Nobody has seen a glimpse of him,” he reported. “I’ve been the round of his intimates, and to all of his pet resorts, and I’ve scoured the town. I don’t know what else to do.”
There was a noise on the front porch. A slow, halting step came up the stairs. Barbara rushed toward the door.
“Careful, now,” cautioned Jack. “That’s the Kid, all right Don’t you greet him with outstretched arms.”