Will flushed, and stood blinking his eyes in the lamplight.

"I don't want to go to school, grandpa," he said persuasively.

"That's a pity, sonny, because you've got to go whether you like
it or not. Your Aunt Saidie has gone and packed your things, and
I'll give you a month's pocket money to start with."

"But I'd rather stay at home and study with Mr. Morrison. Then I
could follow after the hounds in the afternoon and keep out in
the fresh air, as the doctor said I must."

"Now, now, we've had enough of this," said Fletcher decisively.
"You'll do what I say, mind you, and you'll do it quick. No
haggling over it, do you hear?"

Will looked at him sullenly, nerved by that reckless anger which
so often passes for pure daring.

"If you make me go you'll be sorry, grandpa," he said, choking.

Fletcher swallowed an uneasy laugh, strangled over it, and
finally spat it out with a wad of tobacco.

"Why, what blamed maggot have you got in your head, son?" he
inquired, laying his heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. "You
didn't use to hate school so, and, as sure as you're born, you'll
find it first rate sport when you get back. It's this Blake
business, that's what it is--he's gone and stuffed you plum full