But he couldn't. He was feeling better--much better--but he couldn't tell. There was another reason now, that he hadn't thought of before: it would make her feel more sorry. And after all, it didn't matter so much; that is, it didn't if-- He looked up at her with a new thought. "But, Bob, you must tell mother all about it," she was saying, as she carefully bathed his chin and lip, and so he had to shake his head again. "Then you must tell papa this noon, Bob." Bob considered. No, he couldn't tell Papa Jack, either. He felt pretty sure father himself wouldn't tell about such a thing if he were a boy. He was silent. Mrs. McAllister began to move about her work, though she still looked at him frequently and anxiously. Bob went away to the window, and stood looking out. He remembered how he had started out that morning, with school-bag and lunch; he remembered how he had approached the school-grounds, and how big and strange and attractive a place it had seemed to him at first, and what a good time all those boys had been having; and then he remembered how, suddenly, he had found them all around him, summoned by the call of that boy with the hateful grin, and how Curly Davis had sneered and spat and struck. Suddenly he found himself tingling all over, and pressing a burning forehead against the cool glass, and digging his knuckles into the corner of the sash till they ached. Then he went into the library, and lay down on father's big leather couch, and thought and thought. Papa Jack came home for lunch at noon, and mother told him. Bob heard them in the hall. "He says he didn't fight," said his mother, "and he says he didn't fall down. He won't tell me, and I told him he must tell you. I don't know why he doesn't want to tell; he isn't ashamed or very much frightened, and he didn't cry after he came home." Bob heard Papa Jack's footsteps cross the hall and come in upon the hard-wood library floor, and then on the big rug by the library couch. Papa Jack sat down beside him and put his big fingers around Bob's little ones. "Well, what about it, Son?" Bob looked up and smiled. Always such a pleasant, warm feeling came over him when Papa Jack came near him and talked to him. "What about it, Son?" But Bob could not reply. His eyes grew serious as they looked back into his father's. "What did this, Bob?" asked Papa Jack, gently touching the hazelnut bruise with a finger. "A boy," said Bob. "What boy?" asked Papa Jack. "A big boy?" Silence, and then a shake of the head. "Did you strike him first?" Again Bob shook his head. "What did you do to him?" Still another shake of the head. "Do you mean he just came up and struck you without any provocation?" "He laughed," said Bob. "What else?" "Spit on my new shoes," reddening. Papa Jack drew his mustache down between his lip and teeth. "Hm! He did, eh? What else?" "Said 'Bob-tail, bob-cat,'" Papa Jack looked puzzled. "Said I was--Bob, bob-tail, bob-cat," explained Bob.