Billy laughed and explained, and the other was relieved—the red mark around Billy's wrist persisted in remaining uppermost in Bridge's mind.
When they had eaten they lay back upon the grass and smoked some more of Bridge's tobacco.
“Well,” inquired Bridge, “what's doing now?”
“Let's be hikin',” said Billy.
Bridge rose and stretched. “'My feet are tired and need a change. Come on! It's up to you!'” he quoted.
Billy gathered together the food they had not yet eaten, and made two equal-sized packages of it. He handed one to Bridge.
“We'll divide the pack,” he explained, “and here, drink the rest o' this milk, I want the pail.”
“What are you going to do with the pail?” asked Bridge.
“Return it,” said Billy. “'Maw' just loaned it to me.”
Bridge elevated his eyebrows a trifle. He had been mistaken, after all. At the farmhouse the farmer's wife greeted them kindly, thanked Billy for returning her pail—which, if the truth were known, she had not expected to see again—and gave them each a handful of thick, light, golden-brown cookies, the tops of which were encrusted with sugar.