"Thanks. It's mighty kind of you chaps, but, really, I feel an awful brute to take your things and enjoy your hospitality. I——"
"Oh, that's all right," smiled Bert, looking straight at him. "Bygones are bygones, Trendall. We're burying the hatchet."
They were burying a good deal more to look at Hugh and Masters. The enormous masses of food those two healthy youngsters were causing to disappear threatened them with apoplexy.
"And, you know," said Susanne, "we're jolly glad to have you with us. The Old Firm don't like having enemies. This feast's to celebrate the loss of one of 'em, and to offer him friendship."
"Friendship! You—you don't mean——" began Trendall almost breathlessly, and then, remembering the painful experience he had already had, stopped abruptly. But Susanne's happy, open smile reassured him. Clive improved the occasion by offering their guest an enormous apple, while Masters bashed a hole in the lid of a tin of sweetened milk and held it out invitingly.
"You have first go," he said. "I daren't offer it to Hugh. He's such a thirsty beggar, and Clive's no better. Better have the first shot, Trendall. Then you're sure to get plenty."
But their guest declined the invitation with a shake of the head. For the moment his thoughts choked him. He gulped. Looking at him, Susanne felt sorry for their late enemy, for he was so obviously overcome by this cordial welcome.
"We understand all about it, don't you know, Trendall," he ventured, as if to save Trendall. "They're all bygones. We begin afresh here. You're one of us."
"You don't mean that you—want me to join you? That you would be glad to have me with you?" gulped Trendall, perspiration now on his forehead, the huge slice of ham on the lid of a tin box, serving as a plate, now neglected. "I—I——"
"That is, we'd like it, if you would," cried Bert, who had a knack of always saying the right thing at the right moment.