“Mr. Laurie,” said Miss Comfort firmly, sitting very straight in her chair and looking at him earnestly, “you shouldn’t try to deceive me. I know that you and the others have spent a great deal of money, and I’d feel horribly if I thought it was all yours. Now, please tell me.”
“Well—well, it’s like this. We did put in a few dollars, Miss Comfort, but not enough to mention, and we were so glad to do it that you oughtn’t to care a mite. Then—then two or three other folks, grown-ups, you understand, wanted to help out, and there was quite a good deal to be done, and so we took the money and promised not to tell who’d given it. You see, Miss Comfort, they wanted to see you comfortable here. And they were folks who could afford to do it, you know. And so—well, that’s how it was,” Laurie concluded, observing Miss Comfort anxiously.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said. “If you promised not to divulge the names of the people who were so kind, I shan’t expect you to. After all—” But she stopped and was silent a moment. Then, “I’ve always said that I would never accept charity,” she went on musingly, “but—well, I don’t know. Maybe I haven’t any right to be proud. Then, somehow, this doesn’t seem so—so degrading. It seems more like—well, just kindness, don’t you think so?”
“Yes, I do,” agreed Laurie emphatically. “And that’s just what it is, ma’am.”
“I don’t feel about it as I would have a few years ago, anyhow,” said Miss Comfort thoughtfully. Then she smiled. “Thanks for telling me, Laurie. You don’t mind my calling you just that, do you? You’ve been so—so— Won’t you have some more cookies?”
“No, ma’am, thank you.” Laurie felt that after going through the last few minutes he deserved a whole plate of cookies, but he resisted the temptation. Too many cookies weren’t good for a fellow who hoped—sometimes—to be a catcher!
He was so relieved at the outcome of the talk that he didn’t realize it was pouring harder than it had poured all day until he had turned into Ash Street. When he did, he gave up the idea of joining the others at the Widow’s and headed as straight as Orstead’s wandering streets would let him head for East Hall, arriving there extremely wet despite his oilskin coat. Sounds told him that many of the fellows had already returned, and at the head of the first flight he encountered Elk Thurston and his room-mate, Jim Hallock, coming down. Hallock said, “Hello, Nod,” and then Elk asked: “How’s the great pitcher coming on? Going to spring him on us pretty soon?”
Laurie said, “Not for another week or so, Elk,” and heard Elk laughing as he and Jim went down.
A little later, when Ned and Kewpie arrived in No. 16, Laurie held their undivided attention.