Mrs. Moreland could not have been very far in the offing. At Junior’s name she hurried down the hall and caught Mahlon’s arm. “Is Junior hurt?” she demanded. Mahlon’s soul was in rebellion. He never had thrown a brick in all his immaculate life. Why any one who had known him all his life should assume that he would, or that he might be held responsible for bricks thrown by any one else, was beyond his comprehension. It was such pure insanity that he lost all respect for any one who could harbour such a delusion. It gave him the proper mental ballast and spinal reinforcement. He straightened himself, removed his hat, and stroked his sleeve. In his most correct and elaborate manner he answered very quietly, and congratulated himself even as he heard the sound of his own voice that it was clear and even, without a tremor. He wondered how this could happen when his heart was pounding until he had instinctively covered it with his hat. “I regret to inform you that some roustabout in the street threw a piece of brick as Junior was leaving my gate this evening. He is slightly cut on the temple, but nothing of any moment. Barring a sore head, he will be as usual in the morning, I am quite sure.” “But why should any one throw a brick at Junior?” demanded Mrs. Moreland, thrusting a strong arm to sweep Mahlon back in order to clear a passage for her trip across the veranda and down the walk in the direction of her offspring. By that time, Junior, encircled by his father’s arm, reached the steps. The ride in the cool evening air had refreshed him. Circulation was somewhat reëstablished in his bruised head. His senses were beginning to clear. The one thing he recognized was that any indignity shown Mr. Spellman would be instantly carried home and detailed to Mahala, and concerning Mahala his conscience was not clear. If he had dared, Mahlon Spellman would have leaned on Junior and wept tears of relief and joy, because Junior’s first words were the sweetest of music upon his anxious ears. “Now, look here, you two old fuss-grannies,” the boy said half laughingly, “don’t make monkeys of yourselves, mollycoddling me. Somebody threw something at something and hit something, and I’m the something they happened to hit, and it happened in the street at the Spellman gate where Mahala and I were talking for a minute. Mr. Spellman doesn’t know a thing more about it than you do, or I do. It was mighty nice of Mrs. Spellman to bandage me up and of Mr. Spellman to bring me home. What you should do is to thank him politely for his kindness and will he come in and have a bracer from your best brand of port? I would be thankful for a little help to get up the stairway and to bed, because I really was hit a pretty solid jolt.”