“I don’t know,” faltered Bob, “only that it’s precious miserable, and—and I wish one of the jolly old Malays would stick his old kris right through my heart, for there don’t seem anything worth living for when one can’t have what one wants.”
Rachel Linton gazed at him half sad and half amused.
“Do you wish me to think of you, Robert Roberts, with respect and esteem?”
“I’d give all the world to be one of your dogs, Miss Linton, or your bird.”
“Do you mean to be a goose?” said Miss Linton, laughing. “There, I did not mean to hurt your feelings,” she added frankly; “but come, now, give up all this silly nonsense, and try to remember that you are after all but a boy, whom I want to look upon as a very dear friend.”
“Do you really?” said Bob.
“I do, really,” said Miss Linton, holding out her hand; “a friend whom I can believe in and trust, out in this dangerous place, and one who will not make my life wretched by being silly, romantic, and sentimental.”
Bob gripped the hand extended to him, and held it for a few moments.
“There,” he said firmly, as he seemed to shake himself together, “I see it now. It’s all right, Miss Linton; and it’s better to be a brick of a boy than a weak, puling noodle of a man, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is,” cried Miss Linton, laughing merrily.