“But Walter Buckman—”
“Be hanged! The bunch he runs with would have troubles of their own if they were investigated. Jim Barney—rotten bad, he was—he was Walter’s particular pal last year; and Walter’s stand for high morals is too thin. He can’t put it over. Come on.”
“But Mrs. Schmitz?”
“She says she’ll be everlastingly ashamed of you if you don’t come home.”
Max had not dreamed he was doing less than right by her in taking himself permanently out of her life. Sydney’s report of her attitude put a new light on the matter. It was enough. He would go back, would meet the issue; in Sydney’s parlance, take what was coming.
There was no boat till morning; and by that time, he was able with the help of his friend to make the trip and arrive at the nursery home where Mrs. Schmitz, apprised by Sydney’s telephone message, had Dr. Carter waiting. His examination resulted in a mild prescription, mostly rest; and Mrs. Schmitz took charge.
“You get to bed mit you, right away quick—you, Max. A boy when he runs away gets punished mit the bed.”
The twinkle in her eye and the mother-tone in her voice were very welcome to the overwrought boy who had lived, it seemed, years of misery since the hour he left the schoolhouse.
He was not really ill, though his exhaustion, following his protracted illness of the winter, was serious. But Mrs. Schmitz had no use for “mollygrups.” She petted, coaxed, scolded, and laughed at him in turn, and soon had him on his feet again, “so goot as efer.”