The boy turned his head slowly, then shook it in silence.
"Nothin' to tell a gal," he answered.
In the darkness he was a black silhouette except that as he drew deep puffs the pipe-bowl reddened and gave momentary outline to his tight jaws and scowling mouth.
They sat together without talk for a time. Once a small owl flapped to a branch overhead and sent its mournful quaver out across the night. After awhile the boy groped around for a stick, and, rising with a sudden angry oath, hurled it viciously at the bird.
"Damn thet owl," he complained. "Hit worrits me."
"Newt—" the girl's voice was softly reproachful—"why did you drive it away? It wasn't hurtin' anything."
"Hit warn't a-fotchin' joy ter nobody," he sullenly rejoined. "I hain't a-feelin' in no fit humor ter be pestered."
Once more she inquired:
"Is anything the matter?"
He rose, and his voice broke out passionately.