One of the raiding soldiers, espying Horace, called out in passing,
"A-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" Horace flinched at this renewal, and the
other lad paused to taunt him again. Horace scooped some snow, moulded
it into a ball, and flung it at the other. "Ho!" cried the boy,
"you're an Indian, are you? Hey, fellers, here's an Indian that ain't
been killed yet." He and Horace engaged in a duel in which both were
in such haste to mould snowballs that they had little time for aiming.
Horace once struck his opponent squarely in the chest. "Hey," he
shouted, "you're dead. You can't fight any more, Pete. I killed you.
You're dead."
The other boy flushed red, but he continued frantically to make
ammunition. "You never touched me!" he retorted, glowering. "You never
touched me! Where, now?" he added, defiantly. "Where did you hit me?"
"On the coat! Right on your breast! You can't fight any more! You're
dead!"
"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.
[Illustration: "Let's See Them Mittens."]
"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.
[Illustration: "Brought a Plate of Food"]
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.
The maiden aunt, fortified in ignorance, gazed with pity and contempt
upon this interest. "Well, now, Emily, how do I know?" she queried.
"Was I goin' to stand over 'im? Of all the worryin' you do about that
child! It's a shame the way you're bringin' up that child."
"Well, he ought to eat somethin'. It won't do fer him to go without
eatin'," the mother retorted, weakly.
Aunt Martha, profoundly scorning the policy of concession which these
words meant, uttered a long, contemptuous sigh.