RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL
He could catch a train to Bridgeboro in half an hour and leave the
thunderbolt to break at the farm after he was safely away. Or he could
return to the farm and still catch a train from Chandler at
eight-twenty. He decided to do this.
He lingered weakly in the station for a few minutes, killing time and
trying to make up his mind just what he would say when he reached the
farm. The station was dim and musty and full of dust and aged posters.
One of these latter was a glaring advertisement of an excursion to
Yellowstone Park. It included a picture of Old Faithful Geyser, that
watery model of constancy which is to be seen on every folder and
booklet describing the Yellowstone. Westy looked at it wistfully. “See
the glories of your native land,” the poster proclaimed. He read it all,
then turned away.
The ticket office was closed, and in his troubled and disconsolate mood
it seemed to him as if even the railroad shut him out. Not a living soul
was there in the station except a queer-looking woman with spectacles
and a sunbonnet and an outlandish bag at her feet. Westy wondered
whether she were going to New York.
Then he wondered whether, when he reached Bridgeboro, he might not
properly say that he was very sleepy and let his confession go over till
morning. Then it occurred to him that he was just dilly-dallying, and he
strode out of the station and through the little main street where
farming implements were conspicuous among the displays. He paused to
glance at these and other things in which he had never before had an
interest. Never before had he found so many excuses for pausing along a
business thoroughfare.
He intended to return through the woods but a man in a buckboard with a
load of clanking milk cans gave him a lift and set him down at the
crossroads near the farm. He cut up through the orchard because he had a
queer feeling that he did not want any one to see him coming. It seemed
very quiet about the farm; he had an odd feeling that he was seeing it
during his own absence. It looked strange to see his aunt stringing
beans on the little porch outside the kitchen and Ira sitting with his
legs stretched along the lowest step. His back was against the house and
he was smoking his pipe. The homely, familiar scene made Westy homesick
for the farm.
“Mercy on us, what you doin’ here?” Aunt Mira gasped. “Westy! You near
skeered the life out of me!”
[Illustration: “MERCY ON US, WHAT YOU DOIN’ HERE?” GASPED AUNT MIRA.]
Ira removed his atrocious pipe from his mouth long enough to inquire
without the least sign of shock. “What’s the matter, kid? Get lost in
the woods and missed your train?”
“No, I didn’t get lost in the woods,” said Westy, with a touch of
testiness.
“Land’s sake, Iry, why can’t you never stop plaguin’ the boy,” said Aunt
Mira.
“I came back,” said Westy rather clumsily. “I came back to tell you
something. I’ve got something I want to tell you because I—because I
want to be the one to tell you——”
“You lost your money,” interrupted Aunt Mira. “I told your uncle he
should have made you a check.”
“Scouts and them kind don’t carry no checks,” said Ira.
“I came back,” said Westy, “because I want to tell you that I shot a
deer in the woods and killed him. It’s true so you needn’t ask me any
questions about it because—because I shot him because I had good
reasons—anyway, because I wanted to, so there’s no good talking about
it.”
Aunt Mira laid down her work and stared at Westy. Ira removed his pipe
and looked at him keenly yet somewhat amusedly. Aunt Mira’s look was one
of blank incredulity. Ira could not be so easily jarred out of his
accustomed calm.
“Where’d yer shoot ’im?” he asked.
“In the woods,” said Westy; “in—in—do you mean where—what part of him?
In his head.”
“Plunked ’im good, huh? Ye’ll have Terry after you, then you’ll have ter
give ’im ten bucks to hush the matter up. Just couldn’t resist, huh?”
“Ira, you keep still,” commanded Aunt Mira, concentrating her attention
on Westy. “What do you mean tellin’ such nonsense?” she questioned.
“I mean just that,” said Westy; “that I killed a deer and I did it
because I wanted to. Then I went through the woods to Barrett’s because
I decided to go to Chandler that way, and while I was talking to a man
there the game warden and another man came along because they must have
been—they must have known about it or something.
“Anyway, I told them I did it—killed the deer. So then I got arrested
and they took me to Chandler and the judge or justice of the peace or
whatever they call him, he said I had to pay a hundred dollars, so I
did. I’ve got enough left to get home with, all right. But anyway, I
didn’t want you to hear about it because I wanted to tell you myself.
I’ve got to stand the blame because I killed him and so that’s all there
is to it.”
It was fortunate for Westy that Aunt Mira was too dumfounded for words.
As for Ira, his face was a study during the boy’s recital. He watched
Westy shrewdly, now and then with a little glint of amusement in his eye
as the young sportsman stumbled along with his boyish confession. Only
once did he speak and that was when the boy had finished.
“Who was the man you was talkin’ with in Barrett’s, kid?”
“His name is Meadows,” Westy answered.
“Hmph,” was Ira’s only comment.
Indeed he had no opportunity for comment for Aunt Mira was presently
upon him and her incisive commentary on Ira’s qualities probably saved
Westy the discomfort of further questioning. He was such a thoroughly
good boy that now when he confessed to doing wrong, Aunt Mira felt
impelled to lay the blame to some one else. And Ira was the victim....