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I fired more than one reporter because he broke his word, although in breaking it he gave us a whale of an exclusive story." Shortly after the first edition was on the streets, John looked up from his typewriter to find Mrs. Sprockett standing beside his desk, about to speak to him.
Sprockett's husband, backing away. "She didn't say didn't leave any word and the baby and " The crying of the Sprockett baby could be heard faintly. "I didn't think I I " and Mrs. Sprockett's husband turned awkwardly and went back to the house. Everything was quiet, so quiet that it startled him. A mocking bird warbled in a tree by the porch.
"She will probably return before long." "She left no note? Gave no warning?" John asked. "She may have run away of her own accord, you know," he added. Mrs. Sprockett stopped her sobbing and sat upright in her chair. Indignation blazed in her eyes. "How dare you, sir? How dare you?" she demanded, furiously. "How dare you stand there and tell me that my Alma left me of her own free will?
Sprockett, who left them only for a few minutes in the morning, he thanked with a guilty feeling of having not appreciated what she had done. The doctor had spoken to him kindly. "My boy," he said, "this comes to all of us. Your father passed as gently as he lived. Remember, there's no sorrow nor suffering where he has gone and be good to your mother."
It was not until he was within a quarter of a block from his home when he saw something that brought him to a sharp halt. Scarcely able to believe what was before his eyes, he stood stock-still for a moment and his worry left him like a weight had been lifted from his soul. On the sidewalk was Mrs. Sprockett with the lost Alma clasped in her arms.
Sprockett left the office, John, unable to wait a minute longer without hearing her voice, telephoned to Consuello's home. He wanted to tell her again that he loved her, and again and again, and he wanted to hear her tell him, as she had before he left her, that her "dreamings had come true, the brightest and the best." But it was Betty instead of Consuello who answered his call.
Sprockett's husband trailed her from house to house in the neighborhood evenings while the Sprockett baby wailed for attention. He drew Consuello's note from his pocket while he and his mother were in the living room after dinner and read it again. He debated in his mind what he should do and finally handed it to his mother without a word. Mrs.
Sprockett, who was fostering his mother's prejudice against motion pictures and motion picture players, would only stay more at home with her colicky baby instead of playing the part of a hypocritical Puritan. A passage from Proverbs his father had often quoted returned to him. "Where no wood is there the fire goeth out; so where there is no talebearer, the strife ceaseth."
Sprockett's husband, coatless and collarless as usual, with the same weary look about his eyes and the same hopeless droop of his narrow, rounded shoulders, mounting the steps. Across the street, in the Sprockett home, the baby wailed and fretted. "Beg pardon," began Mrs. Sprockett's husband. "I just thought " "Yes, she's inside," said John, anticipating the inevitable question.
His suspicion that her condemnation of photoplays and everyone connected with them was being fostered by someone else had been substantiated by an incident which occurred shortly after the night she had turned her back on Consuello. That Mrs. Sprockett, "from across the street" as John always thought of her had interrupted one of the evening chats he always had with his mother.
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