“Then why didn’t you ask him to name him!”
“Why didn’t I ask him to name him,” repeated Tod, in a fume. “Do you suppose I thought he was going to die, Whitney?—or that the kick was to turn out a serious one? Hearn was growing big enough to fight his own battles: and I never thought but he would be up again at supper-time.”
John Whitney pushed his hair back, in his quiet, thoughtful way, and said no more. He was to die, himself, the following year—but that has nothing to do with the present matter.
I was standing away at the gate after this, looking at the sunset, when Tod came up and put his arms on the top bar.
“What are you gazing at, Johnny?”
“At the sunset. How red it is! I was thinking that if Hearn’s up there now he is better off. It is very beautiful.”
“I should not like to have been the one to send him there, though,” was Tod’s answer. “Johnny, I am certain Hearn knew who it was,” he went on in a low tone. “I am certain he thought the fellow, himself, knew, and that it had been done for the purpose. I think I know also.”
“Tell us,” I said. And Tod glanced over his shoulders, to make sure no one was within hearing before he replied.
“Wolfe Barrington.”
“Why don’t you accuse him, Tod?”