“But I thought you would have to run.”
“Yes; so I have. I mean to tot up on a piece of paper. It’s five yards more twice over each time, you know, and mounts up tremendously before you’re done; but I’ve made up my mind to do it, and I will.”
“All that’s very brave of you,” cried Lucy, looking him most shamelessly full in the eyes, and keeping her own very still to conceal the twitching mischief that was seeking to make puckers and dimples in all parts of her pretty face.
“Well,” he said, heavily, “you can’t quite call it brave. It’s plucky, though,” he added, with a self-satisfied smile. “There are not many fellows in my position who would do it.”
“Oh, no, I suppose not,” said Lucy, with truthful earnestness this time; and then to herself: “He’s worse than I thought.”
“Now that’s what I like, you know,” exclaimed Rolph. “That’s what I want—a sort of sympathy, you know. To feel that when I’m doing my best to win some cup or belt there’s one somewhere who takes an interest in it, and is glad for me to win. Do you see?”
“Oh, of course I am glad for you to win, if it pleases you,” said Lucy, demurely.
“But it doesn’t please me if it doesn’t please you,” cried Rolph. “I’ve won such a heap of times, that I don’t care for it much, unless there should be some one I could come and tell about it all.”
“Then why not tell Glynne?” said Lucy, opening her limpid eyes, and gazing full in the captain’s face.
“Because it’s of no use,” cried Rolph. “I’ve tried till I’m sick of trying. I want to tell you.”