he could catch a train to bridgeboro in half an hour and leave the thunderbolt to break at the farm after he was safely away. or he could return to the farm and still catch a train from chandler at eight-twenty. he decided to do this.
he lingered weakly in the station for a few minutes, killing time and trying to make up his mind just what he would say when he reached the farm. the station was dim and musty and full of dust and aged posters. one of these latter was a glaring advertisement of an excursion to yellowstone park. it included a picture of old faithful geyser, that watery model of constancy which is to be seen on every folder and booklet describing the yellowstone. westy looked at it wistfully. “see the glories of your native land,” the poster proclaimed. he read it all, then turned away.
the ticket office was closed, and in his troubled and disconsolate mood it seemed to him as if even the railroad shut him out. not a living soul was there in the station except a queer-looking woman with spectacles and a sunbonnet and an outlandish bag at her feet. westy wondered whether she were going to new york.
then he wondered whether, when he reached bridgeboro, he might not properly say that he was very sleepy and let his confession go over till morning. then it occurred to him that he was just dilly-dallying, and he strode out of the station and through the little main street where farming implements were conspicuous among the displays. he paused to glance at these and other things in which he had never before had an interest. never before had he found so many excuses for pausing along a business thoroughfare.
he intended to return through the woods but a man in a buckboard with a load of clanking milk cans gave him a lift and set him down at the crossroads near the farm. he cut up through the orchard because he had a queer feeling that he did not want any one to see him coming. it seemed very quiet about the farm; he had an odd feeling that he was seeing it during his own absence. it looked strange to see his aunt stringing beans on the little porch outside the kitchen and ira sitting with his legs stretched along the lowest step. his back was against the house and he was smoking his pipe. the homely, familiar scene made westy homesick for the farm.
“mercy on us, what you doin’ here?” aunt mira gasped. “westy! you near skeered the life out of me!”
“mercy on us, what you doin’ here?” gasped aunt mira.
ira removed his atrocious pipe from his mouth long enough to inquire without the least sign of shock. “what’s the matter, kid? get lost in the woods and missed your train?”
“no, i didn’t get lost in the woods,” said westy, with a touch of testiness.
“land’s sake, iry, why can’t you never stop plaguin’ the boy,” said aunt mira.
“i came back,” said westy rather clumsily. “i came back to tell you something. i’ve got something i want to tell you because i—because i want to be the one to tell you——”
“you lost your money,” interrupted aunt mira. “i told your uncle he should have made you a check.”
“scouts and them kind don’t carry no checks,” said ira.
“i came back,” said westy, “because i want to tell you that i shot a deer in the woods and killed him. it’s true so you needn’t ask me any questions about it because—because i shot him because i had good reasons—anyway, because i wanted to, so there’s no good talking about it.”
aunt mira laid down her work and stared at westy. ira removed his pipe and looked at him keenly yet somewhat amusedly. aunt mira’s look was one of blank incredulity. ira could not be so easily jarred out of his accustomed calm.
“where’d yer shoot ’im?” he asked.
“in the woods,” said westy; “in—in—do you mean where—what part of him? in his head.”
“plunked ’im good, huh? ye’ll have terry after you, then you’ll have ter give ’im ten bucks to hush the matter up. just couldn’t resist, huh?”
“ira, you keep still,” commanded aunt mira, concentrating her attention on westy. “what do you mean tellin’ such nonsense?” she questioned.
“i mean just that,” said westy; “that i killed a deer and i did it because i wanted to. then i went through the woods to barrett’s because i decided to go to chandler that way, and while i was talking to a man there the game warden and another man came along because they must have been—they must have known about it or something.
“anyway, i told them i did it—killed the deer. so then i got arrested and they took me to chandler and the judge or justice of the peace or whatever they call him, he said i had to pay a hundred dollars, so i did. i’ve got enough left to get home with, all right. but anyway, i didn’t want you to hear about it because i wanted to tell you myself. i’ve got to stand the blame because i killed him and so that’s all there is to it.”
it was fortunate for westy that aunt mira was too dumfounded for words. as for ira, his face was a study during the boy’s recital. he watched westy shrewdly, now and then with a little glint of amusement in his eye as the young sportsman stumbled along with his boyish confession. only once did he speak and that was when the boy had finished.
“who was the man you was talkin’ with in barrett’s, kid?”
“his name is meadows,” westy answered.
“hmph,” was ira’s only comment.
indeed he had no opportunity for comment for aunt mira was presently upon him and her incisive commentary on ira’s qualities probably saved westy the discomfort of further questioning. he was such a thoroughly good boy that now when he confessed to doing wrong, aunt mira felt impelled to lay the blame to some one else. and ira was the victim....
