He sat holding his head and wishing he were dead. The worst of it was, Betty was right. He had let himself be badgered into doing something he knew was wrong, just because it had seemed that there was nothing else he could do.
Betty had not been fooled. Maybe what she wanted to try wasn’t any good either. . . but she had known a wrong answer when she heard it.
He sat there, flailing himself but not knowing what to do. The more he thought, the angrier he got. He had let himself be talked into something that wasn’t right. . . just because it was reasonable. . . just because it was logical. . . just because it was common sense.
The deuce with common sense! His ancestors hadn’t used common sense, any of ’em! ‘Who was he to start such a practice?
None of them had ever done the sensible thing. Why, take his great great great grandfather . . . he’d found a situation he hadn’t liked and he had turned a whole planet upside down through seven bloody years. Sure, they called him a hero. . . but does starting a revolution come under the head of common sense?
Or take. . . Oh, shucks, take any of ’em! There hadn’t been a “good” boy in the bunch. Would granddad have sold Lummox? Why, granddad would have torn down the courthouse with his bare hands. If granddad was here, he’d be standing guard over Lummox with a gun and daring the world to touch one spine.
He certainly wasn’t going to take any of Perkins’ dirty money; he knew that.
But what could he do?
He could go to Mars. Under the Lafayette Law he was a citizen and could claim land. But how could he get there? Worse, how could he get Lummox there?
The trouble with that, he told himself savagely, is that it almost makes sense. And sense is no use to me.
At last he hit on a plan. It had the one virtue of having no sense to it at all; it was compounded of equal parts of folly and of risk. He felt that granddad would have liked it.
IX. Customs and an Ugly Duckling
He went down to the upper hallway and listened at his mother’s door. He did not expect to hear anything as her bedroom was sound-proofed; the action was instinctive. Then he returned to his own room and made rapid preparations, starting by dressing in camping clothes and mountain boots. His sleeping bag he kept in a drawer of his desk; he got it out, tucked it in a side pocket of his coat and shoved its power pack in a breast pocket. Other items of hiking and camping gear he distributed among other pockets and he was almost ready to go.
He counted his cash and swore softly; his other assets were in a savings account and now he would have no chance to draw from it. Well, it couldn’t be helped. . . he started downstairs, then remembered an important matter. He went back to his desk.
“Dear Mum,” he wrote. “Please tell Mr. Perkins that the deal is off. You can use my college money to pay back the insurance people. Lummie and I are going away and it won’t do any good to try to find us. I’m sorry but we have to.” He looked at the note, decided that there was no more to be said, added “Love,” and signed it.
He started a note to Betty, tore it up, tried again, and finally told himself that he would send her a letter when he had more to say. He went downstairs, left the note on the dining table, then went to the pantry and picked out supplies. A few minutes later, carrying a large sack crammed with tins and packages, he went out to Lummox’s house.
His friend was asleep. The watchman eye accepted him; Lummox did not stir. John Thomas hauled back and kicked him as hard as possible. “Hey, Lum! Wake up.”
The beast opened his other eyes, yawned daintily, and piped, “Hello, Johnnie.”
“Pull yourself together. We’re going for a hike.”