“It’s all right, mom,” said Westy.
“I’m only sorry you ever went up there,” mused Mrs. Martin. “But I want you to promise me, dearie, that you won’t say another word about it to your father; don’t speak about Yellowstone Park either, because he feels very strongly about the whole thing.”
“I won’t,” said Westy.
“You know, dear,” Mrs. Martin observed with undeniable truth, “I’ve known your father longer than you have. We must just say nothing and let the whole matter blow over. Very soon he’ll be angry about his income tax and then he’ll forget about this summer. He thinks that your Uncle Dick shouldn’t have such men about his place as that horrible Ira, as you call him. He blames that man more than you. He says that farms are hiding places for good-for-nothing scoundrels who can’t get employment elsewhere.”
“Ira isn’t a scoundrel,” said Westy.
“Well, he stole a king, and I’m sure a man that steals a king isn’t a gentleman.”
There seemed no answer to this. But Westy moved closer to his mother and let her put her arm about him.
“Now, dearie, it’s all over,” she said, “and it was a horrible nightmare and I’m proud of my boy because he was straightforward and honest—and I’m sure your father is too. But he’s very queer and we mustn’t cross him. So now we’ll forget all about it and I’ve something to tell you. Pee-wee Harris——”
At the very mention of this name Westy laughed.
For Pee-wee Harris, present or absent, spread sunshine in the darkest places. But never in a darker place than in Westy’s room that night of his return from his summer’s vacation.