Wallie did not answer. He stood motionless, staring at the road where the heat waves shimmered, his absent gaze following a miniature cyclone that picked up and whirled a little cloud of powdered gypsum, while Helene waited.
Her eyes were upon his face with an expression that would have arrested his attention if he had seen it, but he seemed to have forgotten her and her question.
When he spoke, finally, it was to himself, rather, as if in denunciation of the momentary temptation which the telegram had been to him.
"No!" emphatically, "I'm not going back like a prodigal who can't stand the gaff any longer! I won't slink into a soft berth because it's offered, and admit that I'm not man enough to stand up and take what comes to me! I'm licked again—proper—and," harshly, "I don't expect anybody to believe in me, but I won't stay licked if I can help it!"
"I'm said to be a good 'picker,' and I've always believed in you, Wallace Macpherson," Helene said, slowly.
He stared his incredulity, then replied with ungracious irony:
"You've concealed it well."
"Flattery is bad for growing boys," she smiled mischievously.
"I'm sure you've never spoiled any one by it. You've treated me like a hound, mostly."
Her eyes sparkled as she answered: