That morning Junior Moreland and his father faced each other across the breakfast table each having a bandaged head. In his heart, each of them was furious over his condition. Junior expressed the opinion to his mother that some one had hit him accidentally when throwing at a prowling cat or a loose animal. Mr. Moreland explained that he had been compelled to work late at the bank. As he was locking the door on leaving, some one had struck him a terrible blow on the head—struck him so forcefully that he had fallen as if he were dead, which evidently frightened the burglar so that he ran away without taking his watch and the big diamond ring that he always wore on his left hand. These explanations were offered for the satisfaction of Mrs. Moreland. She sat in a sort of stupefaction, looking from her husband to her son, her mind filled with slow wonder, with persistent questionings, with sickening forebodings. She kept asking for details, when in her heart she knew they were lying to her. She so fervently desired to accept their word that she asked for particulars in the hope that one or the other might afford her a small degree of heart-ease by telling her something so convincing that she could believe it and not feel like a fool in so doing. As Mr. Moreland left the breakfast table, he said to Junior: “Come up to the bathroom a minute. I want to be sure your head is all right before you risk going to school.” Once inside the most elaborate of the three bathrooms of Ashwater, Moreland Senior closed the door and faced Moreland Junior. “Now, out with it, young man,” he said. Moreland Junior looked at his father speculatively. “I told you the truth last night, Dad,” he said. “I didn’t see who did it, but, of course, it was Jason. There isn’t any one else who would have dared. He’s had it in for me since that time he spoiled my suit, and you had him licked for it.” A slow grin broke over Junior’s face. He looked at his father with an impudent leer. His eyes focussed on the surgical bandages decorating the Senior Moreland’s head, and then slowly and deliberately, he said: “He’s a darn good shot, ain’t he?” Taken unexpectedly and in a tender spot, Moreland Senior caught his breath sharply as he studied his son. “Of course, that burglar stuff is all right to feed Mother,” said Junior. “A woman will swallow anything, and Mother’s a regular boa constrictor, if you tell it to her real impressively. But you needn’t dish out that burglar dope to me. You didn’t have luck to brag of manhandling Jason for busting my head, did you, Dad?” Moreland Senior lifted his right hand, also in surgical bandages, and then with the tips of the injured member, he slowly felt across his damaged head. He leaned forward to look at his reflection in the mirror.