It was a very dilapidated figure, indeed, that Ruth watched trundle the bale down the shadowy length of the warehouse. When his load was deposited he wheeled the hand-truck back for another bale. His face was red and he was perspiring. Ruth thought the work must be very arduous for his slight figure.
And then she forgot all about anything but the identity of the boy. It was Henry Smith—“Curly” as he was known about Lumberton, New York. She glanced quickly at her chum. Helen saw the boy, too, and had recognized him as quickly as had Ruth herself.
CHAPTER XIII—RUTH IS TROUBLED
“What shall we do about it?” asked Helen.
“Do about what, dear?”
“You know very well, Ruthie Fielding! You saw him as well as I did,” Helen declared.
They were riding slowly back to the Big House after their visit to the river side, and Helen reined her horse close in beside her chum’s mount.
“I know what you mean,” admitted Ruth, placidly. “Do you think it is necessary for us to say anything—especially where others might hear?”
“But that’s Curly!” whispered Helen, fiercely.
“I am sure of it.”