look at him with startled eyes, and his father drew himself sharply out of the comfortable chair and went toward him:
“Chris!” he said, and his voice was like an electric current. “What is the matter with you? Where have you been?”
“Tha’s none o’ your business!” replied the boy, trying to straighten up and look steadily at his father, his dripping hat back again on his head. “You refushed to gimme the dough I needed, an’ I went where I knew I could get it! Tha’s all! Wha’s that t’you? Got m’debts all paid an’ three dollars lef’ over. Pretty good, what? You ain’t got a single kick comin’—”
Chris’s voice trailed off suddenly in a kind of choking sound as a strong hand seized his collar.
“That’s enough!” said Chester Thornton authoritatively. “Don’t say another word in your mother’s hearing!”
He threw the boy’s hat off, pulled off his overcoat, and taking him firmly by the arm propelled him up the stairs to the bathroom, his face sternly white, the boy dragging back and protesting.
“Wha’s yer hurry, old soak?” Chris asked his father blearily. “Got all night, ain’t we? I know I’m half-stewed, but wha’s that? It’s happened once or twice before—”
The bathroom door slammed over the last words, and Eleanor Thornton, listening in horror at the foot of the stairs, heard the water turned on furiously in the bathtub.
As if he were assisting at some horrid rite, Chester Thornton helped his son to remove his clothing, and then against his most earnest protests plunged him into a tub of cold water.
Minutes later, sobered, ashamed, well rubbed down and arrayed in dry, warm pajamas, Chris crept to his bed, and Chester Thornton came slowly, heavily down the stairs like an old, old man.
“Eleanor!” he said gropingly, as she came toward him from the darkened parlor and stood beneath the hall light, “Eleanor, I—”
It was then that everything went black before his eyes, and clutching for the stair railing and missing it, he fell and struck his head against the newel post. Then all the world fled away from his consciousness.
Chapter 5
H er mother’s scream brought Betty to the head of the stairs calm, superior, in a hastily assumed robe. But when she saw her father lying at the foot of the stairs with blood on his forehead and her mother kneeling beside him wiping his face with her handkerchief and endeavoring ineffectually to lift him to a sitting posture, her assurance fled, and a white, scared look took its place. For angry as she was with him, she adored her father.
She flew down the stairs taking command as she came.
“Now Mums, you keep cool,” she said. “I’ll call the doctor. How did it happen?”
“He fell,” said her mother reproachfully. “I think he was dizzy—He—Your brother— You —He’s been—”
But Betty was already giving the doctor’s number at the telephone and waiting, for no orders proceeded efficiently to the kitchen for water and ice and pieces of old linen.
The doctor arrived almost at once. Betty had caught him just as he came in from a late call before he had retired.
They laid Thornton on the couch in the living room, and Betty stirred the fire and put on fresh wood. She brought glasses and spoons and blankets and hovered silently in the shadows of the room until the quivering eyelids opened at last, and she saw her father’s searching glance go hurriedly around the room, heard his deep, profound sigh as returning consciousness brought back his problems. Then she stole silently up to her room and lay down in the dark with her door open, listening. She was frightened at the white look of her father’s face, but angry, too. It didn’t seem quite decent of Chester to collapse this way just because he had discovered a few trifles about his children that he hadn’t known before. He had no right to be so far behind the times that he would expect them always to be infants! When he got better she would
“Chris!” he said, and his voice was like an electric current. “What is the matter with you? Where have you been?”
“Tha’s none o’ your business!” replied the boy, trying to straighten up and look steadily at his father, his dripping hat back again on his head. “You refushed to gimme the dough I needed, an’ I went where I knew I could get it! Tha’s all! Wha’s that t’you? Got m’debts all paid an’ three dollars lef’ over. Pretty good, what? You ain’t got a single kick comin’—”
Chris’s voice trailed off suddenly in a kind of choking sound as a strong hand seized his collar.
“That’s enough!” said Chester Thornton authoritatively. “Don’t say another word in your mother’s hearing!”
He threw the boy’s hat off, pulled off his overcoat, and taking him firmly by the arm propelled him up the stairs to the bathroom, his face sternly white, the boy dragging back and protesting.
“Wha’s yer hurry, old soak?” Chris asked his father blearily. “Got all night, ain’t we? I know I’m half-stewed, but wha’s that? It’s happened once or twice before—”
The bathroom door slammed over the last words, and Eleanor Thornton, listening in horror at the foot of the stairs, heard the water turned on furiously in the bathtub.
As if he were assisting at some horrid rite, Chester Thornton helped his son to remove his clothing, and then against his most earnest protests plunged him into a tub of cold water.
Minutes later, sobered, ashamed, well rubbed down and arrayed in dry, warm pajamas, Chris crept to his bed, and Chester Thornton came slowly, heavily down the stairs like an old, old man.
“Eleanor!” he said gropingly, as she came toward him from the darkened parlor and stood beneath the hall light, “Eleanor, I—”
It was then that everything went black before his eyes, and clutching for the stair railing and missing it, he fell and struck his head against the newel post. Then all the world fled away from his consciousness.
Chapter 5
H er mother’s scream brought Betty to the head of the stairs calm, superior, in a hastily assumed robe. But when she saw her father lying at the foot of the stairs with blood on his forehead and her mother kneeling beside him wiping his face with her handkerchief and endeavoring ineffectually to lift him to a sitting posture, her assurance fled, and a white, scared look took its place. For angry as she was with him, she adored her father.
She flew down the stairs taking command as she came.
“Now Mums, you keep cool,” she said. “I’ll call the doctor. How did it happen?”
“He fell,” said her mother reproachfully. “I think he was dizzy—He—Your brother— You —He’s been—”
But Betty was already giving the doctor’s number at the telephone and waiting, for no orders proceeded efficiently to the kitchen for water and ice and pieces of old linen.
The doctor arrived almost at once. Betty had caught him just as he came in from a late call before he had retired.
They laid Thornton on the couch in the living room, and Betty stirred the fire and put on fresh wood. She brought glasses and spoons and blankets and hovered silently in the shadows of the room until the quivering eyelids opened at last, and she saw her father’s searching glance go hurriedly around the room, heard his deep, profound sigh as returning consciousness brought back his problems. Then she stole silently up to her room and lay down in the dark with her door open, listening. She was frightened at the white look of her father’s face, but angry, too. It didn’t seem quite decent of Chester to collapse this way just because he had discovered a few trifles about his children that he hadn’t known before. He had no right to be so far behind the times that he would expect them always to be infants! When he got better she would
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