. .
His thoughts as he walked fixed intently upon his hurt. There was a
cool, liquid feeling about it and he imagined blood moving
slowly down under his hair. His head seemed swollen to a size that made
him think his neck to be inadequate.
The new silence of his wound made much worriment. The little blistering
voices of pain that had called out from his scalp were, he thought,
definite in their expression of danger. By them he believed that he could
measure his plight. But when they remained ominously silent he became
frightened and imagined terrible fingers that clutched into his brain.
Amid it he began to reflect upon various incidents and conditions of the
past. He bethought him of certain meals his mother had cooked at home,
in which those dishes of which he was particularly fond had occupied
prominent positions. He saw the spread table. The pine walls of
the kitchen were glowing in the warm light from the stove.
Too, he remembered how he and his companions used to go from the
school-house to the bank of a shaded pool. He saw his clothes in
disorderly array upon the grass of the bank.
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