“Come, boys, this wont do,—we must be on our way home.”
“What’s your hurry?” inquired Jerry; “it isn’t four o’clock yet.”
“Perhaps it isn’t,” replied Clinton, “but I ought to have been at home by this time. Come, jump in, and I will turn the horse round.”
The boys got into the wagon, and were soon slowly threading their way out of the woods. In about half an hour they reached Mr. Fletcher’s, where Clinton stopped, and got the bags of seed. He had now a pretty good load, and much of the way being up hill, he did not get along very fast. Oscar and Jerry talked as fast as usual, but Clinton looked sober, and did not seem inclined to say much. Indeed, he hardly spoke to them, from the time they left the store until they reached the house where Oscar and Jerry lived, when he bade them good afternoon, and drove on.
The fact was, Clinton was suffering the penalty of his first cigar, but he did not like to confess it, and this was the reason why he said nothing. Soon after he started from the Falls, he began to experience a sinking, nauseating feeling in his stomach, and every jolt and jerk of the wagon seemed to increase it. He concealed his feelings from Oscar and Jerry, as much as he could, and after they had alighted, he hurried home as fast as possible.
It was past six o’clock when Clinton drove into the yard at home. His father, who had begun to feel anxious at his long absence, had come in from the field, and on seeing Clinton, he called out to him, somewhat sharply,
“Where have you been all the afternoon, Clinton? I’ve been waiting for you more than two hours.”
“Mr. Fletcher wasn’t there, and I had to wait for him,” replied Clinton. “Besides, it was so warm I thought I wouldn’t drive very fast.” Ah, Clinton, have you forgotten that it is a falsehood to tell but half the truth?
Clinton had begun to unharness the horse, when he became so faint and dizzy that he was obliged to stop; and before he could get into the house, he began to vomit. His father, hearing the noise, ran to his aid, and led him into the house. The pale, deathly look of Clinton, as his father assisted him into the sitting-room, was the first notice his mother received that he was ill. She was somewhat startled by the suddenness of his entrance, and at first thought that he had got hurt.
“Mercy on us! what has happened?” was her first exclamation.