Short Stories
It was a very severe attack, and it was a week before Johnny
dressed and tottered feebly across the floor. Another week, the
doctor said, and he would be fit to return to work. The foreman
of the loom room visited him on Sunday afternoon, the first day
of his convalescence. The best weaver in the room, the foreman
told his mother. His job would be held for him. He could come
back to work a week from Monday.
"Why don't you thank 'im, Johnny?" his mother asked anx-
iously.
"He's ben that sick he ain't himself yet," she explained apolo-
getically to the visitor.
Johnny sat hunched up and gazing steadfastly at the floor.
He sat in the same position long after the foreman had gone. It
was warm outdoors, and he sat on the stoop in the afternoon.
Sometimes his lips moved. He seemed lost in endless calcula-
tions.
Next morning, after the day grew warm, he took his seat on
the stoop. He had pencil and paper this time with which to con-
tinue his calculations, and he calculated painfully and amazing-
ly.
"What comes after millions?" he asked at noon, when Will
came home from school. "An' how d'ye work 'em?"
That afternoon finished his task. Each day, but without paper
and pencil, he returned to the stoop. He was greatly absorbed in
the one tree that grew across the street. He studied it for hours at
a time, and was unusually interested when the wind swayed its
branches and fluttered its leaves. Throughout the week he
seemed lost in a great communion with himself. On Sunday,
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