“Don’t you tell him a thing!” I orders. “Can’t you decide anything for yourself. Do you have to run home and ask papa or mamma every time you want to blow your nose?”
Ronnie’s face gets red. “Not exactly,” he says, faint-like. “These groceries...!”
“We’ll help you carry ’em home,” I volunteers, “as far as the bottom of the hill, anyway.”
“Sure!” says Mack, and grabs the sack of eggs. “Oh, oh! There’s another one cracked! Man—these eggs are tough—you can crack ’em but you can’t break ’em.”
“Mother will throw a fit,” Ronnie observes, ruefully. He stares about him, badly worried, because his groceries are divided up between six fellows, and he’s probably wondering if he’s ever going to get ’em back.
“We’re not a bad bunch—honest!” I tells him, as we walk along, keeping our heads down against the wind and the snow. “Trouble is—you and us haven’t ever gotten acquainted. We think you’re a real guy underneath.”
Say—you ought to see Ronnie warm up! I guess he’s been starved for talk like this ... someone to take an interest in him. He’s still afraid we’re going to take a backhanded slap at him, though.
“I—I don’t get out much,” he confesses. “There’s lots of things I’d like to do if...!”
“Fine!” busts in Mack. “You come with us and you can do ’em!”
“Could I learn to ski?” Ronnie asks.