This remark was another indication of Jarley’s depression.  He rarely combated Mrs. Jarley’s ideas, and when he did, and with a certain air of irritation, it was invariably a sign of his low mental state.

“When you say that the football goes, do you mean that it stays?” queried Mrs. Jarley, who was a little tired herself, and could not, therefore, resist the temptation to indulge in a bit of innocent repartee.

“I do,” said Jarley, shortly.  “Goes is sometimes a synonym for stays.  When I feel stronger I may invent a new language, which will have fewer absurdities than English as she is spoke.”

And with this Jarley went to bed, and slept the sleep of the just man who is truly weary.

If he had foreseen the result of his football investment it is doubtful if his sleep would have been so tranquil—­unless, perchance, he were fashioned after that rare pattern of mankind, Louis XVI. of France, who called for his six or seven course dinner with a mob of howling, bloodthirsty Parisians in his antechamber, and who on the eve of his execution slept well, despite his knowledge that within fifteen hours his head would in all probability be lopped off by the guillotine to gratify the lust for blood which was the chief characteristic of the promoters of the first French Republic.

At six on the morning of Thanksgiving Day Jarley was sleeping peacefully, but the youthful Jack was not.  Thanksgiving Day was not a holiday in his eyes, but a day set apart for work, thanks to his father’s indulgence in providing him with a football.  He had gone to bed the night before with the ball hugged tightly to his breast; and along about ten o’clock, when Jarley himself had gone into the nursery to put that treasured good-night kiss upon the forehead of his sleeping boy, tired as he was and blue as he was, he had difficulty in repressing the laughter that manifested itself within him, for Jack lay prone, face upward, with the football under the small of his back, and seemingly as comfortable as though he were resting upon eider-down.

“That is certainly a characteristic football attitude,” Jarley said, when Mrs. Jarley had come to see what had caused her husband’s chuckle.

“Yes—­and so good for the spine!” returned Mrs. Jarley.

The attitude was changed, but the ball was left where Jack would see it the first thing on awaking in the morning.  At six, as I have said, Jarley was sleeping peacefully, but Jack was not.  He had opened his eyes some minutes before, and on catching sight of his treasured football he began to grin.  The grin grew wider and wider, until apparently it got too wide for the bed, and the boy leaped out of his couch upon the floor.  The first thing he did was to pat the ball gently but firmly, very much as a kitten manifests its interest in a ball of yarn.  Then his attentions to his new plaything grew more pronounced and vigorous, and within fifteen minutes it had been chased out of the nursery into the parental bedchamber.  Still Jarley slept.  Mrs. Jarley was merely half asleep.  She tried to tell Jack to be quiet; but she was not quite wide awake enough to do so as forcibly as was necessary, and the result was that instead of abating his ardor, Jack plunged into his sport more vigorously than ever.