Mary went at once to her drawer,--she guessed how Pelham had gotten funds. She put on her hat and hurried in to the office, carrying with her the boy's note.
Her lips were set, and her voice difficult to control, when she faced her husband across the bevelled glass that covered his desk. "Read this, Paul," handing him the crumpled message.
It was written painstakingly in the boy's unformed upright script, a youthful imitation of his father's distinctive hand:
I can not stand any moar whipings. Hollis can have my things wen he growes up. I will come back as soon as father is ded.
Before he had time to comment, the mother spoke. "You know I advised against this--this brutal, cold-blooded punishment of my son. This is what has come of it."
She bit her lip to keep from crying. "He's gone; he may be dead, for all I know. He told Nell he might go to Jackson...."
"I'll go down to the station. He can't leave before the 4:17."
"Promise me you won't whip the baby any more...." Her voice shook, in spite of herself. "I'll go with you."
He shook his head. "I'll study it out.... I'd better go alone."
At the far end of the waiting-room,--it lacked half an hour to train-time,--he saw at once the slight figure. Pelham had invested in a bag of bananas, and was disconsolately eating the second. As he saw his father's figure approaching, he wilted weakly back in the seat.
He was surprised at the lack of interest in his father's voice.
The older man sat down beside him, and spoke carefully. "As soon as you want to leave home, Pelham, you may. If you're going to Jackson, or anywhere else, father'll be glad to write on and see that you get a job of some kind. But you are pretty small to be starting out now."
"I think you'd better come home to-night, and think over the matter. If you want to go to-morrow, I'll be glad to help."
Pelham rose obediently, clutching the draggled bundle, and slipped a confiding hand into his father's. Nothing was said about the whippings; they ceased.
When summer came, Pelham spent his vacation at Grandfather Barbour's home. He made the journey alone, in the conductor's care.
Joyfully he hopped out at the station, and drove up the leisurely oak avenue to the big house. He had his own cool little room again, fragrant with the honeysuckle blossoms beneath the window, and the scent of peach blossoms from the near end of the orchard.