In ever deepening dejection the discussion proceeded until at length Mop came forward with a daring suggestion.
"Say, boys, let's wait until noon. He won't notice anything. We can easily fool him."This brought no comfort to Larry, however, whose previous virtues would only render this lapse the more conspicuous. A suggestion of Joe's turned the scale.
"Dat woodchuck," he said, "he's got one hole on de hill by dere.
He's big feller. We dron heem out."
"Come on, let's," cried Mop. "It will be awful fun to drown the beggar out.""Guess we can't do much this morning, anyway," said Ben, philosophically making the best of a bad job. "Let's go, Larry."And much against his will, but seeing no way out of the dilemma, Larry agreed.
They explored the woodchuck hole, failing to drown out that cunning subterranean architect who apparently had provided lines of retreat for just such emergencies as confronted him now. Wearied of the woodchuck, they ranged the bush seeking and finding the nests of bluejays and of woodpeckers, and in a gravel pit those of the sand martens. Joe led them to the haunts of the woodcock, but that shy bird they failed to glimpse. Long before the noon hour they felt the need of sustenance and found that Larry's lunch divided among the four went but a small way in satisfying their pangs of hunger.
The other three, carefree and unconcerned for what the future might hold, roamed the woods during the afternoon, but to Larry what in other circumstances would have been a day of unalloyed joy, brought him only a present misery and a dread for the future. The question of school for the afternoon was only mentioned to be dismissed.
They were too dirty and muddy to venture into the presence of the master. Consequently the obvious course was to wait until four o'clock when joining the other children they might slip home unnoticed.
The afternoon soon began to lag. The woods had lost their first glamour. Their games grew to be burdensome. They were weary and hungry, and becoming correspondingly brittle in temper. Already Nemesis was on their trail. Sick at heart and weighted with forebodings, Larry listened to the plans of the other boys by which they expected to elude the consequences of their truancy. In the discussion of their plans Larry took no part. They offered him no hope. He knew that if he were prepared to lie, as they had cheerfully decided, his simple word would carry him through at home. But there the difficulty arose. Was he willing to lie? He had never lied to his mother in all his life. He visualised her face as she listened to him recounting his falsified tale of the day's doings and unconsciously he groaned aloud.
"What's the matter with you, Larry?" inquired Mop, noticing his pale face.
"Oh, nothing; it's getting a little cold, I guess.""Cold!" laughed Mop. "I guess you're getting scared all right."To this Larry made no reply. He was too miserable, too tired to explain his state of mind. He was doubtful whether he could explain to Mop or to Joe his unwillingness to lie to his mother.
"It don't take much to scare you anyway," said Mop with an ugly grin.
The situation was not without its anxieties to Mop, for while he felt fairly confident as to his ability to meet successfully his mother's cross examination, there was always a possibility of his father's taking a hand, and that filled him with a real dismay.
For Mr. Sam Cheatley, the village butcher, was a man of violent temper, hasty in his judgments and merciless in his punishment.
There was a possibility of unhappy consequences for Mop in spite of his practiced ability in deception. Hence his nerves were set a-jangling, and his temper, never very certain, was rather on edge.
The pale face of the little boy annoyed him, and the little whimsical smile which never quite left his face confronted him like an insult.
"You're scared," reiterated Mop with increasing contempt, "and you know you're scared. You ain't got any spunk anyway. You ain't got the spunk of a louse." With a quick grip he caught the boy by the collar (he was almost twice Larry's size), and with a jerk landed him on his back in a brush heap. The fall brought Larry no physical hurt, but the laughter of Joe and especially of big Ben, who in his eyes was something of a hero, wounded and humiliated him. The little smile, however, did not leave his face and he picked himself up and settled his coat about his collar.
"You ain't no good anyway," continued Mop, with the native instinct of the bully to worry his victim. "You can't play nothin' and you can't lick nobody in the whole school."Both of these charges Larry felt were true. He was not fond of games and never had he experienced a desire to win fame as a fighter.
"Aw, let him alone, can't you, Mop?" said big Ben. "He ain't hurtin' you none.""Hurtin' me," cried Mop, who for some unaccountable reason had worked himself into a rage. "He couldn't hurt me if he tried. Icould lick him on my knees with one hand behind my back. I believe Joe there could lick him with one hand tied behind his back.""I bet he can't," said Ben, measuring Larry with his eye and desiring to defend him from this degrading accusation. "I bet he'd put up a pretty fine scrap," continued Ben, "if he had to."Larry's heart warmed to his champion.
"Yes, if he had to," replied Mop with a sneer. "But he would never have to. He wouldn't fight a flea. Joe can lick him with one hand, can't you, Joe?""I donno. I don' want fight me," said Joe.
"No, I know you don't want to, but you could, couldn't you?"persisted Mop. Joe shrugged his shoulders. "Ha, I told you so.
Hurrah for my man," cried Mop, clapping Joe on the back and pushing him toward Larry.
