“Never got lost,” denied the boy instantly. “My old man give me a larrupin’, ’n’ I jest run off to go West an’ fight Injuns, but it come dark ’n’ I had ter camp in the woods, ’n’ they ketched me ’n’ took me back home. My maw, she didn’t let my paw larrup me no more fer that, fer she knowed I was desprut, an’ I’d said that I’d run erway ag’in if I was thrashed any more. When a desprut man says that, folks better be careful what they do to him.”
With some difficulty, Locke refrained from a delighted outburst of laughter. “I quite agree with you, Tommy,” he said. “There have been occasions when I was desperate myself.”
“I know, I know,” eagerly cried the little fellow. “I seen that fust game you pitched ag’inst Bancrof’. Gee! You must ’a’ been desprut with the bunch howlin’ at ye ’n’ you plumb off your pins; but you jes’ got together an’ made ther Bullies’ look like er lotter shines. I see all ther games. It don’t cost me nuthin’; I know er loose board, ’n’ I crawl t’rough the fence. Say,” he added, in sudden alarm over the indiscretion of this confession, “you won’t gimme erway, will ye?”
“Never,” promised the pitcher solemnly. “I register an oath to be silent as the grave.”
“Come, Tommy,” said Janet, “we must go back to the others.”
“Aw, w’ats the use o’ hurryin’?” objected the boy. “They’re comin’ this way now.” He lifted his voice in a shrill shout: “Hey, fellers, come on! This way. Here we be.”
There were answering calls, and the sound of running feet and crashing bushes. Seeing a look of uncertainty upon the girl’s face, Locke hastened to reassure her:
“Let them come, Miss Harting. This is as good a place as any for them to amuse themselves.”
“But you—we have disturbed your reading.”
“There are things more interesting than books, and I was really a bit lonely. See, there is a clean log on which you may sit, and, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to you. You’ll certainly be well chaperoned. Of course, if you object to my company and—”