Mr. Harding’s nose,” he said.
“No. That’s what he said, but I only tweaked it a little.”
“There was blood everywhere,” replied Eric feebly but with obvious relish.
“Yes. There was, wasn’t there? And if he comes near you, I’ll do it again.”
Waldo pressed a hand to his eyes and shook his head. “Jo,” he said in a warning tone.
At the sound of Waldo’s voice, Eric gave a little cry and tried to haul himself up. Jo put a steadying arm around his shoulders. “Look who is here,” she said. “Mr. Bowman. He is our friend. He’s here to help us. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d still be locked up in Bow Street. He won’t let anything bad happen to you, will you, Mr. Bowman?”
Waldo spoke to the boy. “We’ll talk when you’re feeling better,” he said gently. There was nothing gentle about the look he flung at Jo. It promised a swift retribution for making promises on his behalf, promises he might not be able to keep.
Mrs. Daventry returned with a glass of warm chocolate. “For his sore throat,” she said.
“Let’s change him first,” said Waldo. “Ready, Jo?”
Eric mewed like a hurt kitten as the nightshirt came off.
“I know,” said Waldo, copying Jo’s matter-of-fact tone, “you’re hot and tired and want to be left alone, but you see, Eric—” The shirt was off, and Waldo’s voice suddenly died.
“Get the candle,” he said tersely to Mrs. Daventry, “and hold it up.”
Eric cringed from that light and tried to slip beneath the covers, but Waldo was firm. “What have we here?” he said.
There were ugly fresh welts across the boy’s shoulders and back, but that was not what held Waldo’s interest. A huge dark bruise ran from under his breastbone to his groin.
Waldo’s hands hovered but he did not touch the bruise. “How did you get this, Eric?” His voice was as pleasant as before and gave no indication of the murderous rage that seethed beneath the surface.
“Mr. Harding threw me down the stairs.”
Jo was shocked. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Eric, you should have told us!”
Her outburst seemed to alarm the boy, for he cried out, “I won’t do it again.”
“Do what, Eric?” asked Waldo gently.
“Run away from school.”
Waldo turned fierce. “No, you won’t, because you’re never going back there. And if Mr. Harding shows his face here, I shall make him sorry that he ever heard the name Eric Foley.”
Eric looked at Jo. She sniffed and said, “He means that he’ll hurt Mr. Harding much worse than I did. Now, let’s get you changed, then you can drink your chocolate.”
While they were waiting for the doctor to arrive, Waldo put a number of questions to Jo and her aunt to get a clearer idea of what might be involved in solving the problem of what to do about Eric Foley. It soon became evident that they knew very little about the boy’s circumstances except that he was an orphan and that he’d become a ward of the church.
“Are you sure of that?”
Jo and her aunt exchanged a quick look. “Well, no, we don’t know for sure,” said Jo. “That’s why we refused to hand him over to the authorities. They were going to return him to that dreadful school until everything was sorted out. And there was no question of Eric going back to that school, not for a day, not for an hour.”
Waldo agreed. He’d had his share of whippings as a schoolboy, and they in no way resembled what Eric had suffered.
They spoke in hushed whispers at one end of the room so that they would not waken Eric. When he turned in his sleep, however, he visibly flinched and whimpered.
In a voice trembling with suppressed anger, Jo said to Waldo, “Now do you see what I mean? I’m going to make Harding pay for what he did to Eric.”
Her aunt said, “But what can you do, dear, a mere female?”
Though Jo was careful to keep her voice down, she made no attempt to conceal her wrath. “I’ll use the power of my newspaper to
“No. That’s what he said, but I only tweaked it a little.”
“There was blood everywhere,” replied Eric feebly but with obvious relish.
“Yes. There was, wasn’t there? And if he comes near you, I’ll do it again.”
Waldo pressed a hand to his eyes and shook his head. “Jo,” he said in a warning tone.
At the sound of Waldo’s voice, Eric gave a little cry and tried to haul himself up. Jo put a steadying arm around his shoulders. “Look who is here,” she said. “Mr. Bowman. He is our friend. He’s here to help us. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d still be locked up in Bow Street. He won’t let anything bad happen to you, will you, Mr. Bowman?”
Waldo spoke to the boy. “We’ll talk when you’re feeling better,” he said gently. There was nothing gentle about the look he flung at Jo. It promised a swift retribution for making promises on his behalf, promises he might not be able to keep.
Mrs. Daventry returned with a glass of warm chocolate. “For his sore throat,” she said.
“Let’s change him first,” said Waldo. “Ready, Jo?”
Eric mewed like a hurt kitten as the nightshirt came off.
“I know,” said Waldo, copying Jo’s matter-of-fact tone, “you’re hot and tired and want to be left alone, but you see, Eric—” The shirt was off, and Waldo’s voice suddenly died.
“Get the candle,” he said tersely to Mrs. Daventry, “and hold it up.”
Eric cringed from that light and tried to slip beneath the covers, but Waldo was firm. “What have we here?” he said.
There were ugly fresh welts across the boy’s shoulders and back, but that was not what held Waldo’s interest. A huge dark bruise ran from under his breastbone to his groin.
Waldo’s hands hovered but he did not touch the bruise. “How did you get this, Eric?” His voice was as pleasant as before and gave no indication of the murderous rage that seethed beneath the surface.
“Mr. Harding threw me down the stairs.”
Jo was shocked. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. Eric, you should have told us!”
Her outburst seemed to alarm the boy, for he cried out, “I won’t do it again.”
“Do what, Eric?” asked Waldo gently.
“Run away from school.”
Waldo turned fierce. “No, you won’t, because you’re never going back there. And if Mr. Harding shows his face here, I shall make him sorry that he ever heard the name Eric Foley.”
Eric looked at Jo. She sniffed and said, “He means that he’ll hurt Mr. Harding much worse than I did. Now, let’s get you changed, then you can drink your chocolate.”
While they were waiting for the doctor to arrive, Waldo put a number of questions to Jo and her aunt to get a clearer idea of what might be involved in solving the problem of what to do about Eric Foley. It soon became evident that they knew very little about the boy’s circumstances except that he was an orphan and that he’d become a ward of the church.
“Are you sure of that?”
Jo and her aunt exchanged a quick look. “Well, no, we don’t know for sure,” said Jo. “That’s why we refused to hand him over to the authorities. They were going to return him to that dreadful school until everything was sorted out. And there was no question of Eric going back to that school, not for a day, not for an hour.”
Waldo agreed. He’d had his share of whippings as a schoolboy, and they in no way resembled what Eric had suffered.
They spoke in hushed whispers at one end of the room so that they would not waken Eric. When he turned in his sleep, however, he visibly flinched and whimpered.
In a voice trembling with suppressed anger, Jo said to Waldo, “Now do you see what I mean? I’m going to make Harding pay for what he did to Eric.”
Her aunt said, “But what can you do, dear, a mere female?”
Though Jo was careful to keep her voice down, she made no attempt to conceal her wrath. “I’ll use the power of my newspaper to
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