Joe was thankful to his mother for that, and thankful that she refrained
from remarking upon his appearance. Father had told her; that was one
thing sure. He could trust her not to worry him; it was never her way.
And, meditating in this way, he hurried through with his solitary
breakfast, vaguely conscious in an uncomfortable way that his mother
was fluttering anxiously about him. Tender as she always was, he noticed
that she kissed him with unusual tenderness as he started out with his
books swinging at the end of a strap; and he also noticed, as he turned
the corner, that she was still looking after him through the window.
But of more vital importance than that, to him, was his stiffness and
soreness. As he walked along, each step was an effort and a torment.
Severely as the reflected sunlight from the cement sidewalk hurt his
bruised eye, and severely as his various wounds pained him, still more
severely did he suffer from his muscles and joints. He had never imagined
such stiffness. Each individual muscle in his whole body protested when
called upon to move. His fingers were badly swollen, and it was agony to
clasp and unclasp them; while his arms were sore from wrist to elbow.
This, he said to himself, was caused by the many blows which he had
warded off from his face and body. He wondered if Brick Simpson was in
similar plight, and the thought of their mutual misery made him feel a
certain kinship for that redoubtable young ruffian.
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