Bob had learned much street slang during his visits to Cottonton, and considered its acquisition a benefit and its use an accomplishment.
“You've said it. Now sneeze it, and dust your brain.”
Mary regarded him with astonishment. “I don't understand such language, Mr. Wood. What do you mean? I haven't a cold in my head.”
Bob laughed insolently.
“No, but you've got a cold heart. What I meant by my French was that you're bluffing. If you ain't eighteen, I'm a primary school boy.”
“Then you don't believe me!” Mary's blue eyes opened to their fullest extent.
Bob thought those blue eyes and light brown hair, golden in the sunlight, those rosy cheeks, and pretty mouth made a most attractive picture, and, in his rough way, he really loved her.
“I'm going home,” said Mary, “and I shall tell my father you said I lied to you.”
“No, you don't,” cried Bob, and he grasped her arm so tightly that she winced. “You don't go until you promise me not to say anything to your father.”
“I won't promise!” Hot tears filled her eyes.