There was a long silence here, during which Helen Grayson watched the play in the boy’s countenance, and told herself that there was a struggle going on between the good and evil in the young nature, and once more she asked herself how she could hesitate in the task before her.
Meanwhile it was very uncomfortable for the frog. The day was hot; Dexter’s hand was hotter still; and though there was the deliciously cool gurgling river close at hand, with plenty of sedge, and the roots of water grasses, where it might hide and enjoy its brief span of life, it was a prisoner; and if frogs can think and know anything about the chronicles of their race, it was thinking of its approaching fate, and wondering how many of its young tadpoles would survive to be as big as its parent, and whether it was worth while after all.
“Dexter,” said Helen suddenly, and her voice sounded so clear and thrilling that the boy started, and looked at her in a shame-faced manner. “Suppose you saw a boy—say like—like—”
“That chap we saw with the hat and stick? him who sneered at me?”
Helen winced in turn. She had young Edgar Danby in her mind, but was about to propose some other young lad for her illustration; but the boy had divined her thought, and she did not shrink now from the feeling that above all things she must be frank if she wished her companion to be.
“Yes; young Danby. Suppose you saw him torturing a frog, a lowly reptile, but one of God’s creatures, in that cruel way, what would you say, now?”
“I should say he was a beast.”
Helen winced again, for the declaration was more emphatic and to the point than she had anticipated.
“And what would you do?” he continued.
“I’d punch his head, and take the frog away from him. Please, Miss Grayson,” he continued earnestly; “I didn’t ever think it was like that. We always used to do it—we boys always did, and—and—”