“I hardly know,” answered he, gazing at the form of Waddie.
My father had slept several hours, and he appeared to be quite sober.
“This is Waddie Wimpleton,” said I, bending over the fallen youth.
“I see it is. I felt a hand upon me, and I started up from the bed. Some one caught hold of me, and I struck right and left, till I heard some one fall,” answered my father, rubbing his eyes, as if to stimulate his bewildered senses. “I thought it was some one who had come to rob me, and I couldn’t help believing it was Christy Holgate.”
“What in the world is the matter?” cried my mother, who now came into the room, pale and trembling with terror.
I explained, as far as I could, the circumstances of the affair. My father said nothing, but went to the window and looked out.
“There is a ladder under the window,” said he.
“But Waddie is not a robber,” added my mother, kneeling on the floor at his side. “His face is cut, and he seems to be stunned.”
My father and I lifted him up, and placed him on the bed. My mother went to work upon him, sending me down to assure my sisters that no harm could come to them. I brought up some water and the camphor bottle. On my return my father seemed to be quite like himself, and was assisting in the restoration of the injured boy.
“He isn’t badly hurt, I think,” said my mother. “One of his front teeth is knocked in, and the blood on his face comes from a mere scratch. What in the world was he doing here?”