"I am willing to leave that to the opinion of all who know me."

"I'll tell my mother!"

"Go home and tell her!"

Jonas started for home, and Phil did not attempt to stop him.

As he saw Jonas reach the street and plod angrily homeward, he said to
himself:

"I suppose I shall be in hot water for this; but I can't help it. Mrs.
Brent always stands up for her precious son, who is as like her as can
be. Well, it won't make matters much worse than they have been."

Phil concluded not to go home at once, but to allow a little time for
the storm to spend its force after Jonas had told his story. So he
delayed half an hour and then walked slowly up to the side door. He
opened the door, brushed off the snow from his boots with the broom
that stood behind the door, and opening the inner door, stepped into the
kitchen.

No one was there, as Phil's first glance satisfied him, and he was
disposed to hope that Mrs. Brent--he never called her mother--was out,
but a thin, acid, measured voice from the sitting-room adjoining soon
satisfied him that there was to be no reprieve.

"Philip Brent, come here!"

Phil entered the sitting-room.