I--I'm not fit for 'em to-day, I guess. I told
you I wasn't well. I'm feeling bad. I'm feeling mighty bad."
His looks confirmed his words. In the last few moments since the angry
flush had passed, the old man's face had faded to a sicklier yellow
than Petro had ever seen upon it--except one day, long ago, when Peter
Rolls, Sr., had tried to be a yachtsman in order to please Ena--and
the weather had been unkind. The young man was stabbed by remorse.
Reason told him that now was the moment to press his point home. But
compassion bade him withdraw it from the wound. It was true that his
father was not well and had warned him of the fact at the beginning of
their conversation. Petro had gone too far.
"I'm sorry, Father," he apologized. "I meant to stir you up, but I
didn't mean to give you a shock. Shall I ring? Is there anything you
want?"
"Only to be alone," replied the other. "I'll lie down here on the
sofa. By and by, if I don't feel better, I'll go to my room maybe and
make it dark and sleep this headache off. I don't remember when I've
been so bad. But don't say anything to your mother."
"You mean about your going to the Hands? She knows about the girl.
Pages:
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409