Part 5 (1/2)
He demurred. Jam wouldn't hurt him. There was nothing really wrong, anyway. Only one of the boys at school had gone home with the measles and he was wondering what it was like. Then he subsided into silence.
Late that evening, Mr. Fletcher found the library gas burning and discovered his son sitting beside the desk, his eyes glued to the portly, green-bound _Family Doctor_. Beside him on a pad were scribbled copious notes. Nor would he even hint, as his father ordered him to bed, what he wanted them for.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Johnny and Louise]
CHAPTER III
HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR
In the morning, John sneaked from the table as soon as the last forkfull of fried potatoes had been devoured. When Mrs. Fletcher brought the breakfast plates out to the kitchen sink, she found him on tiptoe, with one hand fumbling among the spice tins and bottles in the top bureau drawer. He turned guiltily, and yawned to hide his embarra.s.sment.
”I was looking for a piece of cinnamon to chew,” he explained. ”Guess I'll be going to school now.”
His mother glanced at the alarm clock which ticked noisily in its place on the wall over the sink.
”Only twenty-five minutes to nine, son. Isn't it a bit early?”
He explained that he had to be up at school at first bell. A geography notebook had been left in his desk, and entries must be made in it before the cla.s.s began. He was gathering his scattered belongings together in the hall when the maternal voice called him back to the kitchen.
”Yes, Mother?” with his head in the doorway.
”Will you ever learn to shut a drawer when you're through with it?”
He shoved it back with a sulky bang. ”Where's my hat?”
”Did you look in the front hall?”
”'Tain't on the floor by the big chair. That's where I most always leave it.”
”How about the closet hat rack?”
A moment later, a surprised shout told that the lost had been found. The front door slammed noisily and he was off to school.
The dishes were washed and dried, the plates and saucers stacked on the pantry shelves, the cups hung neatly on the appointed hooks in the cupboard, and the silver put away in the sideboard drawer. Then Mrs.
Fletcher turned her attention to the tidying of the house. She made innumerable circles and criss-crosses with the carpet sweeper over the parlor rug, and was dusting the big rocker by the bay window when a chance glance up the street revealed two small figures playing far at one end of the strip of macadam. Her son, without doubt, was one of them. No one else wore a cap tilted back at quite so ridiculous an angle. The other stocky figure looked and acted like Bill Silvey.
Why weren't they at school? Hookey? No, for truants never allowed themselves within sight of home and easy detection. And there was a certain brazen righteousness about their actions. At the big, green house, Silvey challenged John to a game of tag. A lamppost nearer, they ceased the mad, dodging chase and engaged in earnest conversation. A hundred yards from the Fletcher house, footsteps lagged to an astonis.h.i.+ng degree and an air of la.s.situde overcame them that was inexplicable in view of recent activities. The boys mounted the front steps wearily. John pressed the bell as if the act consumed the last atom of strength in his arm.
His mother swung back the door anxiously. ”What on earth's the matter?”
”School doctor sent me home,” her son explained. ”Think's I've got the measles.”
”Nonsense! Let me take a look at you.” His eyes were reddened to an alarming degree, but there seemed little else the matter.
”He did,” John insisted. ”Told me to stay home today to see if they got worse. Silvey and I are going fis.h.i.+ng.”
”Fis.h.i.+ng! And coming down with the measles?”