Mr. Walton studied him a few moments and seemed to be debating whether to take a serious view of the mishap. Finally he struck a balance between Hervey’s rattle-brained narrative and the evident facts of the case. “Let me see your foot,” he said.
Hervey blithely removed his shoe and Mr. Walton felt of the foot.
“See, it’s all right now,” said Hervey, wriggling his toe.
“Well, so you walked home.”
“Sure, some walk.”
A pause followed. Mr. Walton pursed his lips and seemed to be thinking. He was a serious man, thin and raw-boned, and of all things fair and considerate. His policy with Hervey had always been fraternal rather than paternal. He suggested rather than commanded. His manner was always that of a comrade. He had thought of this motherless boy when he married again. He was a typical New Englander and not given to levity, but he had a quiet, half smiling appreciation of Hervey’s nature. He was disposed to leniency as far as his New England conscience would permit.
“Well,” he said, “I don’t think anything you’ve done to-day justifies the worry you have caused your mother to-night. If you had asked me I’d have given you the fare to and from Tanner’s Corners. Then you would have been home for supper.”
“I didn’t know I was going there till I got there,” said Hervey in his blithesome way.
“And you didn’t know how you were going to get back at all,” Mr. Walton paused, considering. “Well Hervey, you’ve been back two nights and out both of those nights. Eleven o’clock, and now, to-night, after twelve o’clock. Before you came down from camp, I made up my mind that I’d give you a chance to act like other boys; I thought maybe you’d be a little different after your summer up there. But if you’re going to go on causing us worry, if you’re going to be just heedless and never use your balance-wheel, why we’ve just got to do something, Hervey. At night, you’ve either got to be at home or we must know where you are. And you must be here at meal time, always.”
“Believe me, I could say it with eats right now.”