“To a farmer I know. I am going to show you a lark, Tom,” said George, and his eyes beamed benevolence on his comrade.
Robinson stopped short. “George,” said he, “no! don’t let us. I would rather stay at home and read my book.”
“Why, Tom, am I the man to tempt you to do evil?” asked George, hurt.
“Why, no! but, for all that, you proposed a lark.”
“Ay, but an innocent one,—one more likely to lift your heart on high than to give you ill thoughts.”
“Well, this is a riddle!” and Robinson was intensely puzzled.
“Carlo!” cried George suddenly, “come here; I will not have you hunting and tormenting those kangaroo rats to-day. Let us all be at peace, if you please. Come, to heel.”
The friends strode briskly on, and a little after eleven o’clock they came upon a small squatter’s house and premises. “Here we are,” said George, and his eyes glittered with innocent delight.