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“You never!”

“I did, too! Hey, fellers, ain’t he dead? I hit ‘im square!”

“He never!”

Nobody had seen the affair, but some of the boys took sides in absolute accordance with their friendship for one of the concerned parties. Horace’s opponent went about contending, “He never touched me! He never came near me! He never came near me!”

The formidable leader now came forward and accosted Horace. “What was you? An Indian? Well, then, you’re dead–that’s all. He hit you. I saw him.”

“Me?” shrieked Horace. “He never came within a mile of me—-“

At that moment he heard his name called in a certain familiar tune of two notes, with the last note shrill and prolonged. He looked towards the sidewalk, and saw his mother standing there in her widow’s weeds, with two brown paper parcels under her arm. A silence had fallen upon all the boys. Horace moved slowly towards his mother. She did not seem to note his approach; she was gazing austerely off through the naked branches of the maples where two crimson sunset bars lay on the deep blue sky.

At a distance of ten paces Horace made a desperate venture. “Oh, ma,” he whined, “can’t I stay out for a while?”

“No,” she answered solemnly, “you come with me.” Horace knew that profile; it was the inexorable profile. But he continued to plead, because it was not beyond his mind that a great show of suffering now might diminish his suffering later.

He did not dare to look back at his playmates. It was already a public scandal that he could not stay out as late as other boys, and he could imagine his standing now that he had been again dragged off by his mother in sight of the whole world. He was a profoundly miserable human being.

Aunt Martha opened the door for them. Light streamed about her straight skirt. “Oh,” she said, “so you found him on the road, eh? Well, I declare! It was about time!”

Horace slunk into the kitchen. The stove, straddling out on its four iron legs, was gently humming. Aunt Martha had evidently just lighted the lamp, for she went to it and began to twist the wick experimentally.

“Now,” said the mother, “let’s see them mittens.”

Horace’s chin sank. The aspiration of the criminal, the passionate desire for an asylum from retribution, from justice, was aflame in his heart. “I–I–don’t–don’t know where they are.” he gasped finally, as he passed his hand over his pockets.

“Horace,” intoned his mother, “you are tellin’ me a story!”

“‘Tain’t a story,” he answered, just above his breath. He looked like a sheep-stealer.

His mother held him by the arm, and began to search his pockets. Almost at once she was able to bring forth a pair of very wet mittens. “Well, I declare!” cried Aunt Martha. The two women went close to the lamp, and minutely examined the mittens, turning them over and over. Afterwards, when Horace looked up, his mother’s sad-lined, homely face was turned towards him. He burst into tears.

His mother drew a chair near the stove. “Just you sit there now, until I tell you to git off.” He sidled meekly into the chair. His mother and his aunt went briskly about the business of preparing supper. They did not display a knowledge of his existence; they carried an effect of oblivion so far that they even did not speak to each other. Presently they went into the dining and living room; Horace could hear the dishes rattling. His Aunt Martha brought a plate of food, placed it on a chair near him, and went away without a word.

Horace instantly decided that he would not touch a morsel of the food. He had often used this ruse in dealing with his mother. He did not know why it brought her to terms, but certainly it sometimes did.

The mother looked up when the aunt returned to the other room. “Is he eatin’ his supper?” she asked.