On a fourth sat Alfred, cracking a
home-made whip. His hands were covered with coal-dust, traces of which
were smeared upon his cheeks. There were spots of ink all down his
clothes, his eyes seemed somehow to have crept closer together. There
were distinct signs of a tendency on the part of his hair to curl over a
certain spot on his forehead. He looked at his father like a whipped
hound but he said never a word.
"What on earth have you been doing, Alfred?" Burton faltered.
The boy dropped his whip and put his finger in his mouth. He was
obviously on the point of howling.
"You left me here all alone," he said, in an aggrieved tone. "There was
no one to play with, nothing to do. I want to go back to mother; I want
Ned and Dick to play with. Don't want to stop here any longer."
He began to howl. Burton looked around once more at the scene of his
desolation. He moved to the fireplace and gazed down at the charred
remnants of his novel. The boy continued to howl.
CHAPTER XXIV
MENATOGEN, THE MIND FOOD
It had been a dinner of celebration. The professor had ransacked his
cellar and produced his best wine. He had drunk a good deal of it
himself--so had Mr. Bomford. A third visitor, Mr.
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