Free Warning Hill by John P. Marquand Page B

here—and don’t be afraid.”
    â€œDaddy,” said Tommy, “where are you going?”
    â€œOut,” said Alfred Michael.
    â€œBut, Daddy,” said Tommy, “why have you got your duck gun?”
    â€œFor company,” his father said. “Hurry, Tom, and go upstairs. Don’t keep Aunt Sarah waiting—and Tom—”
    A change in his voice made Tommy turn. His father was standing there, nursing his gun in the crook of his arm. “Good night, Tom,” Alfred Michael said.
    As Tommy climbed the dusky stairs, he heard his father step down the hallway, and heard the boards creak smartly beneath his tread. A creaking noise and a gust of air—the front door was open.
    â€œAll right, Tom?” His father’s voice was hushed into a whisper.
    â€œAll right,” said Tommy, and then a rumbling slam told him that the front door was closed, and once again Tommy was all alone in a strange place, but not really alone.
    Even in Aunt Sarah’s room something was just behind him. Tommy knew it. He did not dare to look around, and Aunt Sarah glanced at him over the top of her spectacles.
    â€œWhat ails you?” said Aunt Sarah. “Are you frightened of the dark?”
    Never in the world would Tommy have told her that he was afraid, for he knew that Aunt Sarah would never have forgotten it. For weeks she would have sharpened her wits on a boy afraid of the dark.
    â€œHo,” said Aunt Sarah, “hand me down the Bible. What’s the psalm we’re at?”
    â€œThe Ninetieth Psalm,” said Tommy, “but Aunt Sarah—”
    It had been Aunt Sarah’s idea that Tommy should read the Bible to her every night. Every night Tommy climbed the stairs, despite his contrary inclinations, like one of the Athenian boys in the book his father sometimes read to him, who was sent to entertain the Minoan Bull upon the Isle of Crete. Every night it was his duty to seat himself on a small stiff chair directly opposite Aunt Sarah’s dark one with the grapes upon it, with a heavy leather Bible perched upon his knees, and then to read in a voice sufficiently loud and clear, passages which she selected during the day. At the same time it was his duty to sit up straight, to hold his head at a proper angle and not to allow his gaze to wander from the page or to sniffle. It was remarkable how acute Aunt Sarah’s hearing was for noises of the small, annoying kind. During this hour also it was his duty to listen to Aunt Sarah, while she retailed certain reminiscences of her youth such as a ride by coach to New York, where she attended a song recital, and of dancing parties at a defunct academy for ladies. But above all, it was his duty to listen to the exploits of her brothers and his grandfather, Thomas Michael, strangely uninteresting exploits they always seemed to Tommy, dealing principally with early morning risings and cold plunges and abstinence from the excessive use of sweets.
    â€œThe Ninetieth Psalm?” said Aunt Sarah. “Well, hand me the Book, since you can’t read. Your grandfather got a blackened eye once, I recollect. Mother put a piece of meat on it. Ho—ho … well, the Ninetieth Psalm—Why do you wriggle and look over your shoulder?”
    â€œAunt Sarah,” said Tommy, “Daddy’s gone out.”
    â€œHey?” said Aunt Sarah.
    â€œDaddy’s gone out,” said Tommy, “and he took his gun with him.”
    â€œHis what?”
    Aunt Sarah stopped turning the pages, and Tommy knew from the way she looked that she had heard him the first time.
    â€œHis gun,” said Tommy.
    Aunt Sarah gave a smart tug to her shawl. “That’s like him, I declare,” said she, “always playing about with weapons. Like as not he’ll shoot himself. What are you wriggling for?”
    Aunt Sarah began to read; she was a tireless and accurate reader. Her voice never faltered, and those solemn