He knew Mahailey was gladder to see him come home than any one
except his mother. Hearing Mrs. Wheeler's wandering, uncertain
steps in the enclosed stairway, he opened the door and ran
halfway up to meet her, putting his arm about her with the almost
painful tenderness he always felt, but seldom was at liberty to
show. She reached up both hands and stroked his hair for a
moment, laughing as one does to a little boy, and telling him she
believed it was redder every time he came back.

"Have we got all the corn in, Mother?"

"No, Claude, we haven't. You know we're always behindhand. It's
been fine, open weather for husking, too. But at least we've got
rid of that miserable Jerry; so there's something to be thankful
for. He had one of his fits of temper in town one day, when he
was hitching up to come home, and Leonard Dawson saw him beat one
of our horses with the neck-yoke. Leonard told your father, and
spoke his mind, and your father discharged Jerry. If you or Ralph
had told him, he most likely wouldn't have done anything about
it. But I guess all fathers are the same." She chuckled
confidingly, leaning on Claude's arm as they descended the
stairs.

"I guess so. Did he hurt the horse much? Which one was it?"

"The little black, Pompey. I believe he is rather a mean horse.
The men said one of the bones over the eye was broken, but he
would probably come round all right."

"Pompey isn't mean; he's nervous. All the horses hated Jerry, and