“He deserved it; I hope you gave him a good one.” Mr. Barriscale had not yet fully recovered from the unpleasant sensation of having been compelled to put his son on a par with a boy of the middle-class in the matter of punishment, and he was not at all averse to having the matter evened up in this way. “I intended to,” replied Ben; “and we clinched, and I threw him, and his head struck the floor pretty hard, I guess. Anyway, he was knocked unconscious, and Mr. McCrae called the doctor and they took him home.” Mr. Barriscale set his half-lifted cup of coffee back into the saucer and looked serious. “How badly was he hurt?” he inquired. “Did the doctor say?” “No. He said there was a slight concussion of the brain, but he couldn’t tell what it would amount to.” Mr. Barriscale looked still more serious. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that you’ve got yourself into trouble.” “What shall I do about it?” inquired Ben, anxiously. “Well, the least you can do, and probably the most at present, is to go to the boy’s house and inquire about him, and offer apologies, and tender your services for anything you can do.” “I’m so sorry for his mother,” broke in Mrs. Barriscale. “She’s such a helpless little thing.” “That’s the trouble with going to the house,” replied Ben. “I’d hate to meet her and have to explain. She’d never understand in the world.” “I’ll go myself to see her,” said Mrs. Barriscale. “I think I can make it all right with her.” But the ironmaster, ignoring his wife’s offer, turned peremptorily to Ben. “You do as I tell you,” he commanded. “You go to McCormack’s house, and to whomever meets you there you express your regret for the occurrence, and offer your services. Go after school to-day.” That settled it. Mr. Barriscale’s wish in his family circle was law. No one ever pretended to dispute him, least of all his son. He did not intend to be domineering, but he could not brook opposition to his will or his plans, and few people, either within or without his home, had sufficient temerity to oppose him. At four o’clock that afternoon Ben went to Captain McCormack’s house on his unpleasant errand. But it was not Hal’s mother who came to the door, nor yet Hal himself, nor a maid. It was Hal’s aunt, Miss Sarah Halpert. She knew Ben, invited him in, and followed him into the little reception room. “You can’t see Hal,” she said, “if that’s what you came for. He isn’t fit to be seen. And you can’t see his mother for she’d be sure to make a mess of it. But you can see me and say anything you like. Now go ahead.” “Well,” Ben replied, “there isn’t much to say, except that I’m sorry about Hal. I didn’t intend to hurt him; not that much anyway. And if there’s anything I can do to help out, why, I’d like to.” “Who told you to say that?” she inquired abruptly. “My father. He said I’d better call and express my regrets and offer my services.” “I thought as much. You wouldn’t have come on your own motion, would you? Or would you?”