CHAPTER II[ToC]
It is to be feared that Professor Ladue had gone and done it again, as Sally said. Not that Sally knew what "it" was, nor did her mother know, either. Indeed, Mrs. Ladue made no inquiries concerning that point, being glad to put the most favorable construction possible upon the matter and, perhaps, afraid that she would not be able to do so if she knew any more. Perhaps, too, she realized that, unless she pursued her inquiries among comparative strangers, she would learn nothing. The professor would lie freely and skillfully, assuming that he considered it necessary or desirable to lie, and might be led to bully a little. Whatever course he might take, she would be no better off. So, as I said, she made no inquiries, which may have been wise or it may not; and she kept on hoping, although each occasion left her with less ground for any reasonable hope.
At all events, Professor Ladue came back early the next afternoon in the most fiendish temper, which may have been due to excess in any of its customary forms. Whatever the exact cause, the effect was, apparently, to make him hate himself and everybody with whom he came in contact. Mrs. Ladue was aware of the state of mind that he would be in, from experience, I suppose; an experience which she did not seem at all anxious to repeat. Sally was aware of it, too, and even Charlie seemed to realize that any meeting with his father was to be avoided. So it happened that Professor Ladue found the way into the house and to his room unobstructed. His wife and his children were nowhere to be seen; which circumstance, in itself, annoyed him exceedingly, although it is probable that he would have found their presence equally annoying.
Once in his room, he paced to and fro for a few minutes, nervously; then he took off his coat and bathed his head and face with cold water, pouring it over his head repeatedly. When he had rubbed his head partially dry he appeared to feel somewhat better, and he seated himself, frowning, at his desk, and tried to apply himself to his work. In this, as he undoubtedly expected, he was not very successful. He would not have expected one of his own students to be able to apply himself to work with any success under similar circumstances, whatever those circumstances were. So he pushed his work aside with some impatience, got up, took the skull from the desk and handled it absently. The feel of the skull seemed to suggest some ideas to him, for he put it down, went to the half-mounted skeleton of that ancient reptile that I have mentioned as lying between his windows, and began to work in earnest.
He soon became interested; so much interested that he was forgetting about his head, which felt as if it had been pounded with hammers,—tiny hammers which had not yet finished their work, whatever it was,—and he was forgetting about his eyes, which ached as if the pressure of blood behind the eyeballs was forcing them out of his head. He didn't know but it was; but it didn't matter. And he was forgetting about his body, every bone and muscle of which was crying out for rest and sleep. He sat there, on the floor under one of his windows, puzzling over a bone which he held in his hand, and completely absorbed.
Suddenly he glanced involuntarily out of the window. There sat Sally, astride a limb of the great tree, looking in at him intently. She was a most annoying child; yes, a most devilishly annoying child. He sprang to his feet and threw up the window, almost in one motion. Sally did not move a muscle; not even her eyes. He did not say the sharp things that were on the tip of his tongue, he could not have told why; he did not say anything for very nearly a minute. Under such circumstances, a minute is a long time. Nor did Sally say anything. She only gazed solemnly at him.
"Sally," he demanded at last, "what are you doing there?" The look in his eyes had softened. You might have mistaken it for a look of affection.