Part 22 (1/2)
The family always slept late on Sunday morning, but at that, John, worn out by the excitement of the preceding evening, stirred drowsily when his father appeared in the doorway.
”Come on, John; time to get up.”
”Yes, dad,” gazing at him with lackl.u.s.ter eyes. As Mr. Fletcher left, he turned his face promptly toward the wall and dropped off to sleep again.
”John!” It was his mother's voice this time.
”Uhu.”
”Why didn't you get up when your father called you?”
”Aw, let me alone. I don't want any breakfast. Honest, I don't.”
”Nonsense! You can take a nap in the afternoon if you want. Come on. I won't go down stairs until I see you up.”
He might as well, then. Mrs. Fletcher was pretty well versed in his tricks, thanks to long years of experience, and there was little chance of further delay. So John sat up and dangled his legs over the side of the bed, while he rubbed his sleep-laden eyes with his fists.
”Need a wet washrag?”
No. He was wide awake now. He listened to her steps on the stairs, and to the opening of the front door as his father brought in the morning paper. Then he fingered one stocking abstractedly.
Half an hour later, prompted by Mrs. Fletcher's remonstrances, her husband came up and found the boy staring with unseeing eyes far over the railroad tracks into the park. In his hand was the same stocking which he had picked up so many minutes before.
At last he appeared in the dining-room, to find that his father and mother had eaten their meal. His hair was half brushed, and his face and neck untouched by cleansing water (hadn't they been soaped the night before?), but he set to work on the nearly cold breakfast with a will.
He removed his empty grain saucer from the bread and b.u.t.ter plate and looked up suddenly.
”Mother,” he said irresolutely.
”Yes, son?”
”Say, Mother--how old does a fellow have to be to get married, anyway?”
His father chortled with merriment. John flushed an embarra.s.sed red. His mother restrained a smile as she answered:
”About twenty-one, dear, and lots of people wait until they're older.
Why?”
”Nothing. Does it cost very much?”
”Cost much?” Mr. Fletcher dropped the Sunday paper to the floor and looked at his son and heir attentively. ”Why, I should say it does. You ought to have at least a thousand dollars saved before you even _think_ of marrying.”
”John,” cautioned Mrs. Fletcher reprovingly. ”Don't torment the child.”
”Let's see,” went on her husband, unheeding. ”You're ten now. If you want to marry by the time you're twenty-one, that means you'll have to earn about a hundred dollars a year from now on. Better begin right away.”
”Raise my allowance, will you, dad?” came the unexpected retort. ”I'm only getting a quarter a week now, and Sid DuPree's father gives him a whole dollar.”
”Young man,” was the grave reply. ”If you want to support a family, you'll have to do it of your own accord. You and your mother keep me busy as it is.”
”Give me a quarter, then,” the boy persisted. ”That's all I want.