“What are you going to do with that stick? Put it down!” she cried.
“I—I——You’ve been listening to us talking,” said the boy. But it was the girl’s voice that spoke.
It did not sound like a boy’s voice at all. It was too high, and there was a certain sweetness to it despite the tremor of the notes. Agnes began to recover her self-possession. She might have been afraid of a reckless boy. But she was strong herself, and agile. Even if the other did have a stick—
“You were listening,” cried the other accusingly, again. “Yes, I was listening—a little,” confessed the Corner House girl. “But so would you—”
“No, I wouldn’t. That’s sneaky,” snapped the other.
“How about your finding out about the book of money you spoke of?” asked Agnes, boldly. “Didn’t you do anything ‘sneaky’ to find out about that?”
The other started and dropped the stick. The man sat down suddenly. It was plain, even to usually unobservant Agnes Kenway, that her remark had startled both of them.
“I was alone—and lost,” Agnes went on to explain. “I was trying to reach Mr. Bob Buckham’s farm, and a wolf chased me—”
“A wolf!” interrupted the youthful tramp. “Now I know you’re telling a wicked story.”
“It was. Or something,” said Agnes, stoutly. “I was scared. Then I saw your smoke.”