“I don’t believe you,” he said—the first words he spoke for half an hour after they had left the Red Lion. “Why should you have lied?”
“I’ve got sick of your good temper, that’s the whole truth, Ray—just sick to death of it. I had to make you mad, or I’d have gone mad myself.”
“But is it true about Lola?”
“Of course it’s not true,” lied Brady contemptuously. “Do you think she’d have anything to do with a chap like me? Not likely! Lola’s a good girl. Forget all I said, Ray.”
“I shall ask her myself. She wouldn’t lie to me,” said the boy.
“Of course she wouldn’t lie to you,” agreed the other.
They were nearing their rendezvous now—the tree-furred cut in the hills—and his eyes were searching for the three white trunks that the lightning had struck. Presently he saw them.
“Come on in, and I’ll tell you all about it,” he said. “I’m not going to walk much farther to-day. My feet are so raw you couldn’t cook ’em!”
He led the way between the trees, over the age-old carpet of pine needles, and presently he stopped.
“Sit down here, boy,” he said, “and let us have a drink and a smoke.”