With much difficulty, because of his soggy shoes, he climbed the rough path up the bank to Lake Street, crossed that thoroughfare to clamber up the exceedingly long flight of stairs--four long flights to be exact--that led to the street above. A workman going down met him toiling up. "Hey!" the man called cheerfully. "Looks like you'd had an accident. Fell in somewheres?" There was no response. Roger climbed steadily on. By sneaking through backyards and driveways, he managed at last to slip into the open door of his own home, up the stairs, and into his own pleasant room, where he proceeded, with some haste, to change his clothes. He owned three union suits. He had one of them on. One was in the wash. The other _should_ have been in his bureau drawer--but it wasn't. To ask for it meant to disclose the fact that he had been in the lake--a secret that he had decided never to disclose to _anybody_. With a sigh for his own discomfort, young Roger dressed himself in dry garments, _over_ his wet union suit. "But what," said Roger, eying the heap of sodden clothing on the floor, "shall I do with those?" Finally he hung the wet suit in the closet, with his dry pajamas spread carefully over them. He concealed his wet shoes, with his socks stuffed inside, far back in a bureau drawer. CHAPTER II PART OF THE TRUTH Roger, with his rather long hair carefully brushed, sauntered downstairs to the nicely furnished dining-room, where his mother was eating breakfast. Mrs. Fairchild was a most attractive little woman. Like Roger, she was blue-eyed and fair. She was taller, however, than Roger and not nearly so wide. "Good morning," said she, with a very pleasant smile. "I guess we're both late this morning. Your father's been gone for twenty minutes." "Good morning," shivered Roger. "Dear me!" said Mrs. Fairchild, catching sight of her son's remarkably sleek head. "I do wish you wouldn't put so much water on your hair when you comb it. It isn't at all necessary and it looks _horrid_--particularly when it's so long. Do be more careful next time." "I will," promised Roger, helping himself to an orange. "It must have taken you a great while to dress. I thought I heard you stirring about hours ago." "Yes'm," returned Roger, looking anywhere except at his pretty mother. "I'm glad you remembered to put on your old clothes, since it's Saturday. But--why, _Roger_! What is that?" "That" was a thin, brownish stream, scarcely more than an elongated drop--trickling down the boy's wrist to the back of his plump hand. Roger looked at it with horror. His drenched, fleece-lined underwear was betraying him.