“Thanks, old man!” said the new boy, putting his hand on my arm. “It’s not the fellows I mind, it’s—” and here he pulled up.
“Old Henniker,” I put in, in accents of smothered rage.
“Ugh!” said Smith; “she’s awful!”
But somehow it occurred to me the Henniker was not what Smith was going to say when he pulled up so suddenly just before. I felt certain there was something mysterious about him, and of course, being a boy, I burned to know.
However, he showed no signs of getting back to that subject, and we talked about a lot of things, thankful to have scope for once for our pent-up feelings. It was one of the happiest times I had known for years, as I knelt there on the hard carpetless floor and found my heart going out to the heart of a friend. What we talked about was of little moment; it was probably merely about boys’ trifles, such as any boy might tell another. What was of moment was that there, in dreary, cheerless Stonebridge House, we had found some interest in common, and some object for our spiritless lives.
I told him all about home and my uncle, in hopes that he would be equally communicative, but here he disappointed me.
“Are your father and mother dead too?” I said.
“Not both,” he replied.
It was spoken in a tone half nervous, half vexed, so I did not try to pursue the subject.
Presently he changed the subject and said, “How do you like that fellow Hawkesbury?”