I hurried to carry the sad message. The following day was a nasty one. A slow, cold drizzle had set in.
Feeling trapped indoors, I prowled from room to room.
I couldn’t understand why my father hadn’t come back from the Pritchards’.
I sat by the window and watched the road. Understanding my feelings, Mama said, “Billy, I wouldn’t worry.
He’ll be back before long. It takes time for things like that.” “I know,” I said, “but you would think he would’ve been back by now.”
Time dragged slowly by. Late in the afternoon, I saw Papa coming. Our old mule was jogging along.
Water was shooting out from under his feet in small squirts at every step.
Papa had tied the halter rope around the mule’s neck.
He was sitting humped over, with his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his patched and worn mackinaw.
I felt sorry for him. He was soaking wet, tired, sleepy, and hungry.
Telling Mama, “Here he is,” I grabbed my jumper and cap, and ran out to the gate and waited.
I was going to ask him what had happened at the Pritchards’
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