The road passed through a belt of dark pine-wood. The village, and the branch road, was very near. Miss Stokes put out her fingers and felt for Joe’s hand as it swung at his side. To say he was staggered is to put it mildly. Yet he allowed her softly to clasp his fingers for a few moments. But he was a mortified youth.
At the cross-road they stopped—Miss Stokes should turn off. She had another mile to go.
“You’ll let us see you home,” said Albert.
“Do me a kindness,” she said. “Put my bike in your shed, and take it to Baker’s on Monday, will you?”
“I’ll sit up all night and mend it for you, if you like.”
“No thanks. And Joe and I’ll walk on.”
“Oh—ho! Oh—ho!” sang Albert. “Joe! Joe! What do you say to that, now, boy? Aren’t you in luck’s way. And I get the bloomin’ old bike for my pal. Consider it again, Miss Stokes.”
Joe turned aside his face, and did not speak.
“Oh, well! I wheel the grid, do I? I leave you, boy—”
“I’m not keen on going any further,” barked out Joe, in an uncouth voice. “She hain’t my choice.”