“Don’t _you_ know?” said Jack. “I haven’t seen him since I came home. We thought you must have sent him on an errand, when he didn’t appear at noon. The Kid always turns up regularly at meal-time.” “I haven’t seen him since mother left,” replied Barbara. “Then I sent him to the sand-pile. I haven’t an idea where he is.” “You told him he couldn’t go to a picnic,” said David, dreamily. “Why, no, I didn’t.” “But you did, Barbara. He came and knocked on your door while you were writing, and told you he wanted to go. And you said no. Then he hollered that he thought you were”—David hesitated delicately over the epithet—“a mean old thing; that he hadn’t asked you to let him have a picnic before since mother had left. And you told him to run away,—that you were busy.” “Did I?” asked Barbara, trying to remember. She had a faint recollection of such an interruption, but she was never sure of what happened during the hours which she spent in the throes of authorship. “How long ago was it?” “’Bout eleven o’clock.” Barbara looked worried. “I can’t think where he could have gone,” she said. “Have you looked everywhere in the house?” “Everywhere we could think of,” responded Jack. “Don’t worry, Barb; he’ll show up as soon as he gets hungry. Disappearance is his long suit.” “Does he often run away like this?” “Every time the spirit moves him. Not even a letter-press could keep him down when the wanderlust seizes him. Sometimes he is gone for hours. Punishment doesn’t seem to do him much good, either, though I must say he never gets enough of it to make any impression. If he were mine, I should test the magic power of a willow switch.” “How do you find him?” “Oh, he comes wandering in, like the prodigal son, after he has fed upon husks for a while. Maybe he has been unable to face the ordeal of a separation from Ellen, and has gone with her.” “I wish he hadn’t gone while father and mother are away. I feel, somehow, as though it were my fault.” “Now stop worrying, Barbara; he’ll turn up. My only fear is that you’ll receive him with open arms when he arrives. Just you plan to be a little severe on him, and we’ll cure him of his habit before mother gets home.” But in spite of Jack’s reassurance, Barbara was troubled, and as she cleared away the remains of the children’s feast, she caught herself looking out of the window, and listening for the click of the gate. At two o’clock, when the last dish was put away, the Kid had not returned; at three he was not in sight; at four none of the neighbors had seen him; at five she left the anxious seat at the front window for the kitchen, with reluctance; and at six it was a worried-looking Barbara who greeted Jack’s return from baseball practice. “Hasn’t the little rascal turned up yet?” asked the boy. “I think I’ll go out and take a look at some of his favorite haunts. Now, Barbara, if he comes while I’m away, don’t you play prodigal with him!”