“I hope your father has made friends with mine,” he kept on saying as we drew nearer home. “It will be so awkward if they are out when you and I want to be in. Because we do, don’t we?”
“Why, of course,” I cried. “And it will be so awkward, won’t it?”
“No,” I said stoutly, “it won’t make any difference; you and I are not going to fall out, so why should we worry about it? I say, look at Bob Chowne!”
Bigley turned, and there he was once more seated upon his box, right up on the big knot of the cord, just as if he liked to make himself uncomfortable. Then his elbows were on his knees and his chin was in his hands, as he stared straight before him from out of the tilt of the big cart.
“Why, what’s the matter, Bob?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“Why, there must be something or you wouldn’t look like that. What is it?”
“Oh, I don’t know; only that we’re going home.”
“Well, aren’t you glad?”
“Glad? No, not I. What is there to be glad about? I haven’t forgotten last holidays.”