“But you don’t feel so now, my son. Jimmy will soon be well; you, too. Then you can talk with him about it. Rest, now; that is your first duty,” she comforted, and left him.
Hot water, lotions, a mother’s tender hands, best of all, a mother’s comprehending heart,—it is wonderful what cures these can make. In an hour Billy was comparatively at ease. His sore body still ached, and his eyes “felt like red fire on the Fourth,” he said; but the world seemed less dark, and he was glad his mother had not taken him at his word and left him to bear his trouble alone.
Yet he could not long keep his mind from the struggle. “Mother, won’t you find out soon about Jimmy, how bad he’s hurt? An’ I wish I knew if Vilette ’n Evelyn ’re all right; it looked awful to see ’em hit with a horsewhip.”
“I’ll get word from them in the morning. Don’t worry any more, but rest; sleep if you can. You can’t help them till you have helped yourself.”
Still, since Billy had broken his resolution of silence, he was feverishly eager to talk. His thoughts were erratic, now in the present, again flying back to the past. “O mother, you should be lickin’ me ’nstead of petting me!” he broke out passionately.
“Why, Billy? I don’t believe in whipping unless all else fails.”
“Well, papa did. If he was alive he’d be giving it to me about now, good and plenty.”
“Why do you think he would have whipped you?”
“Don’t you remember the first day I went to school, he took me between his knees,—I was a little kid then,—and said, ‘Billy, if I know that you ever jump on a boy first to fight him, I’ll lick you. And if another boy jumps on you first, and you don’t fight back, no matter how big he is, I’ll lick you then.’”
“I guess he didn’t say ‘lick,’ Billy.”