"Pooh! What's the use of talking in that way?"
Tom was evidently disconcerted by this decided stand of his companion. He knew that his bump of firmness was well developed, and whatever he said he meant.
"You had better return home, Tom. Boys that run away from home don't often amount to much. Take my advice, and go home," added Bobby.
"To such a home as mine!" said Tom, gloomily. "If I had such a home as yours, I would not have left it."
Bobby got a further idea from this remark of the true state of the case, and the consideration moved him. Tom's father was a notoriously intemperate man, and the boy had nothing to hope for from his precept or his example. He was the child of a drunkard, and as much to be pitied as blamed for his vices. His home was not pleasant. He who presided over it, and who should have made a paradise of it, was its evil genius, a demon of wickedness, who blasted its flowers as fast as they bloomed.
Tom had seemed truly penitent both during his illness and since his recovery. His one great desire now was to get away from home, for home to him was a place of torment. Bobby suspected all this, and in his great heart he pitied his companion. He did not know what to do.
"I am sorry for you, Tom," said he, after he had considered the matter in this new light; "but I don't see what I can do for you. I doubt whether it would be right for me to help you run away from your parents."
"I don't want you to help me run away. I have done that already."
"But if I let you go with me, it will be just the same thing. Besides, since you told me those lies this morning, I haven't much confidence in you."
"I couldn't help that."