conversation with much masculine pomp--too much, in fact; for when he
became particularly vain-glorious some one in the group was certain to
glance at his shoes--and shoes in June in Boyville are insignia of the
weaker sex, the badges of shame.

But Mealy did not feel his disgrace. He walked up the ash path to the
kitchen with an excellent imitation of manly pride in his gait. He
kicked at a passing cat, and shook his head bravely, talking to
himself about the way he would have whipped the new boy if his father
had not interrupted the fight.

As Mrs. Jones heard the boy's step on the porch, she said to his
father, "Now, pa, that boy has been punished enough to-day. Don't you
say a word to him." Harold walked by his father with averted face. At
supper the boy did not look at his father, and when the dishes were
put away, Mr. Jones, who sat in the kitchen smoking, heard his wife
and the child in a front room, chatting cheerily. The lonesome father
smoked his pipe and recalled his youth. The boy's voice brought back
his own shrill treble, and he coughed nervously. After Mrs. Jones had
put the lad to bed, and was in the pantry arranging for breakfast, the
father knocked the ashes from his briar into the stove, and, humming
an old tune, went to the boy's bedroom door. He paused awkwardly on
the threshold. The boy turned his face toward the wall. The action cut
the father to the quick. He walked to the bed and bent over the child,
touching a father's rough-bearded face to the soft cheek. He found the
soft hand--with a father's large hand--under the sheet, and he held
the little hand tightly as he said:

"Well, Harold"--there he paused for a second. But he continued, "Do
you think you'd a-licked that boy--if--if--I hadn't a-come?"