FOR BETTER OR WORSE
It was now mid-afternoon. The boy who had gone to work on his uncle’s
farm so as to earn money to take him to Yellowstone Park, stood on the
main street of the little town of Chandler with three dollars and some
small change in his pocket. This was the final outcome of all his hoping
and working through the long summer. He had just about enough money to
get home to Bridgeboro.
And there only disgrace awaited him. For he would not tell the true
circumstances of his killing the deer. He had assured Luke Meadows of
his freedom; he would not imperil that freedom now by confiding in any
one. His father might not see it as he did and might make the facts of
the case known to these local authorities. Westy thought of the little,
motherless girl clinging to her father, and this picture, which had
aroused him to rash generosity, strengthened his resolution now. Westy
was no quitter; he had done this thing, and he would accept the
consequences.
What he most feared was that at home they would question him and that he
would be confronted with the alternative of telling all or of lying. He
thought only of Luke Meadows and of the little girl. And being in it
now, for better or worse, he was resolved that he would stand firm upon
the one simple, truthful admission that he had killed a deer.
Yet he was so essentially honest that he could not think of returning to
Bridgeboro without first going back to the farm to tell them what he had
done. He knew that this would mean questioning and might possibly,
through some inadvertence of his own, be the cause of the whole story
coming to light. But he could not think of going to Bridgeboro, leaving
these people who had been so kind to him to hear of his disgrace from
others. He would go back himself and tell his aunt; he would be in a
great hurry to catch the later train and that would save him from being
questioned. Yet it seemed a funny thing to do to go back and hurriedly
announce that he had killed a deer and as hurriedly depart. Poor Westy,
he was beginning to see the difficulties involved in his spectacular
good turn.
He wandered over to the railroad, worried and perplexed. Wherever he
might go there would be trouble. He would have to face his aunt and
uncle, then his father and mother. And he could not explain. How could
he hope to run the gauntlet of all these people with just the one little
technical truth that he had killed a deer?
It was just beginning to dawn on him that truth is not a technical thing
at all, that to stick to a technical truth may be very dishonest. Yet,
he had (so he told himself) killed the deer. And that one technical
little truth he had invoked to save Luke Meadows.
He would not, he _could_ not turn back now.