Jerry Dustin.
That sweet-faced little woman looked about with anxious eyes, then
turned to the little shoemaker.
"Joe--I'm looking for Peter. Wasn't he here with you? He said he was
coming here to see the boys."
"He was here and he saw the boys. They all went off together."
"Joe"--fear and worry leaped to the lovely corn-flower eyes,
"Joe--not--surely they didn't go--they aren't down _there_?"
"That's just where they are. I was just going after them."
For still seconds this father and mother of boys looked at each other
in misery. Both were thinking the same thing, both shrank from what
was before them, but even as Joe squared his shoulders Mrs. Dustin
straightened hers.
"I'm going with you, Joe."
So down the autumn street went these two. Joe, because he had promised
Hattie when she was sick unto death that he would always watch over the
boys, would love and cherish and guard them.
Mrs. Dustin was going because Peter was her baby, her strange, weird
duckling, full of whimsical fancies and fantastic longings. He was a
sort of dream child for whom she alone felt wholly responsible. All
the others were good, understandable children. But Peter was odd and
nobody but his blue-eyed mother knew how to handle him.
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