"How was she?"
"Able to walk up to the house," responded the boy irritatingly.
"Look here,"—Dunham laid a heavy hand on the other's shoulder, and Benny struggled vainly to shake it off. "What's the matter with you? Was Miss Sylvia ill? I didn't see her before she went."
Benny ceased his futile writhing. "Oh, you kin hold on to me, I s'pose," he said sullenly; "but I don't care if you have got a muscle, and kin stay under water, and play football. Gosh durn you fer makin' her cry, I say."
The vim with which Benny exploded his accusation silenced Dunham for a moment, but he did not relax his grasp. "I didn't make her cry," he answered then. "Give you my word, Benny. Can't you have any sympathy for a fellow? I didn't know she was going, and I'm all broken up."
Benny lifted his eyes, half relenting.
"What did she cry for? What did she say? Tell me, and I'll give you the best fishing outfit you can buy in Portland."
"Didn't say nothin' much. She come to me all white around the gills, and asked if I'd sail her home right away quick. She had her bag, and I see she didn't cal'late to come back. She kep' a-hurryin' me up, and after we got out o' the cove she give me a smile and thanked me for bein' so quick, and then she said, 'If you don't mind, Benny, I'm goin' to sleep. I'm jest as tired as I can be.'"
"Well, where does my making her cry come in?" In his impatience John gave an unconscious shake to his captive.
"You leggo my collar," said Benny, with a threatened return of the sulks.