“If I’m going to run away,” he thought, “I’ll need all the food they give me. I won’t be able to get anything at midnight, which is about the time I leave. I suppose I might raid the pantry,” he added to himself after a moment’s thought, “but then they might hear me and stop me. No, I’ll just have to make this do.”
He ate the bread and drank the milk, thinking the while of his future. It was a bold step he was taking, and yet Joe did not regret having decided on it. He had reached the limit of patience as far as his foster-parents were concerned. True, he owed something to them, but he felt he had more than paid the debt.
For when Joe’s real parents died there was a little sum of money realized from the sale of Professor Morretti’s effects, and this the deacon had taken charge of. He used it to clothe and educate Joe, taking out a certain sum each year for “board and lodging.”
In consequence the money was all used up, the last of it about two years prior to the opening of this story, so that Joe’s little inheritance had paid his way for some years.
Then, when the lad was old enough, the deacon, before and after school hours, had called on Joe’s strength in the feed and grain business, Joe being an efficient helper.
The deacon was honest in his way, and he allowed Joe money for this help. But he did not overpay the lad and part of what he gave, the deacon took back for board and lodging, though allowing Joe a certain sum each week. Joe had saved most of this, and it was from this horde that the deacon proposed deducting the money to pay for the burned suit.
“But he shan’t do it!” said Joe fiercely, as he felt of the money he had put in the pocket of his best suit. He was going to wear that when he left, carrying Tom’s suit, which he intended leaving on the door-step of the Simpson home, with a note explaining the circumstances.
After his supper, if one could call it that, Joe undressed, and lay down on the bed. He was tired from the day’s excitement, and he realized that he had a hard night before him. His plans, as yet, were rather hazy. All he was sure of was that he was going to run away.
Deacon Blackford did not eat much supper. His wife was rather nervously anticipating another scene between him and Joe, but the deacon did not mention the lad’s name. Mr. Blackford sat in glum silence after the meal. Finally Mrs. Blackford could stand it no longer. She wanted to know the worst.
“What are you going to do to—him?” she finally asked.