"God bless my soul!" Mr. Waddington muttered.
They sat down together on the top of a case. Neither of them found
words easy.
"He's taken to drawing," Burton continued slowly, "hates the life at
home, goes out for walks with the schoolmaster. He's got a list of
books to read--classics every one of them."
"Poor little fellow!" Mr. Waddington said to himself. "And to think
that in three weeks or a month--"
"And in the meantime," Burton interrupted, "here he is on my hands.
He's run away from home--as I did. I don't wonder at it. What do you
advise me to do, Mr. Waddington?"
"What can you do?" Mr. Waddington replied. "You must keep him until--"
"Upon children," Burton said thoughtfully, "the effect may be more
lasting. No news, I suppose, of the tree?"
Mr. Waddington shook his head sorrowfully. "I've had a private
detective now working ever since that day," he declared. "The man
thinks me, of course, a sort of lunatic, but I have made it worth his
while to find it. I should think that every child in the neighborhood
has been interviewed. What about the novel?"
"Come back from the publishers," Burton replied. "I have sent it away
to some one else."
Mr. Waddington looked at him compassionately.
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