He had a book,--some story of
wild adventure and hair-breadth escape, and he hated to be interrupted.
For all that Jack is such a quiet, gentle sort of a boy, he likes to
read the most exciting books, about fighting and shipwrecks and
savages,--though I'm _sure_ if an Indian should walk into the room, he'd
fly into the remotest corner of the closet and hide,--and the hymns he
loves the best are the ones that bring in about war and soldiers. You
should hear him sing, "The Son of God goes forth to war," in church! he
positively shouts. So when I said, "Well, Jack, how'd you get along this
morning?" he went right on turning over the leaves to find his place,
and answered shortly:--
"Oh, no play out-of-doors for a week, and a double dose of that vile
Latin, and a sound rating for getting into a row on the street,--that's
all."
"But didn't you tell him--" I began indignantly, but Jack interrupted.
"He didn't ask why I did it, and I didn't tell him," he said.
"What a _silly_ you are!" I cried, I was _so_ mad! "That Henderson ought
to be told about and punished--now!"
"Henderson is a beast!" Jack said severely; then, having come to his
place in the story, he added: "Now please go away, and don't bother me,
Betty; I want to read.
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