“Never mind,” said Tom, improvising a war dance round the milk-cart; “you might as well be hung for a cow as a calf.”
“Say,” demanded Dave, “where is the boat planted—I got to go. I’ll get into an awful row, I will!”
“I’m in a wuss row,” observed Tom, “an’ I don’t care.”
“Where’s the boat, Tom?” pleaded Dave. “You promised to tell.”
“I can’t tell you now,” explained Tom, ceasing his dance, and coming close enough to unbuckle the horse’s girth on the sly, “I’ll tell you to-night.”
“To-night?” queried Dave.
“Yes; you meet me down under that big tamarind tree just inside Dobie’s fence in the scrub, an’ I’ll tell you.”
“But,” said Dave, with arising qualms, “I ain’t goin’ to run away with you.”
“Well, you are a cur,” retorted Tom with magnificent contempt.