While waiting, the chauffeur had lighted the gas lamps of the car, and, with the machine again under way, they blazed a golden path through the deepening autumn darkness. The sharp, cold air whipped Jerry’s cheeks, but the strong arm of the brother he loved was about him, and his heart beat with happiness so intense that it was like a keen, sweet pain.
CHAPTER XXII.
A SYMPATHETIC SOUL.
Both Roger and his father urged Ben and Jerry to come home with them for dinner, but the older brother declined, saying that they had many things to talk over between them. Already Ben had found that Jerry was disinclined to answer his eager questions in the presence of the strangers, and he was consumed with curiosity to know what singular chance had brought the blind boy thither.
When the automobile stopped in front of the house, Jimmy Jones, his eyes big with wonderment, peered forth through the darkness and saw the two boys alight and the little dog hop out after them. Then good nights were called, the big car swung slowly round and rolled away, and Jimmy came hopping forth, palpitant to know about the game.
“Did you play, Ben—did you play?” he asked. “Who won?”
“We did, and I played, Jimmy.”
“Oh, good! I wish I could ‘a’ been there to see it. Mother she’s kept some hot bread for you and some coffee. She said you’d be hungry.”
“That’s right,” confirmed Mrs. Jones, her ample figure appearing in the doorway. “You’re young and strong, and I don’t b’lieve hot bread will do no damage to your dejesshun. Joel, my late departed, he was a master hand for hot bread and presarves. We had baked beans for supper, an’ I’ve left the pot in the oven, so they’re piping hot. Joel, he used to eat about four heapin’ plates of beans, an’ then he’d complain because every little morsel he put into his stummick disagreed with him. Who’s that with ye?”