“Yes, I acknowledge it, and I’m sorry for it. A fellow can’t say any more than that—can he?”
Freeman looked up in great surprise, half suspecting that Crawford was trying to make game of him; but the big fellow was looking down at him in a friendly fashion, and now held out his hand saying, “Shake hands on it, boy, and let bygones be bygones, won’t you?”
“Of course, if you really mean it,” said Freeman, hesitatingly giving his hand.
“To be sure I mean it, and to prove that I do, I’ll take you for a drive to-morrow—if you’ll go. I’ve a jolly pair of ponies. What time can you go?”
“Why—any time, as to-morrow’s Saturday,” said Freeman, still doubting, unable to understand this sudden change of manner.
He thought of it again and again that evening, and finally talked it over with Edith.
“It’s the queerest thing,” he said; “I don’t yet believe that he really meant it. Don’t believe he’ll come for me at all, to-morrow.”
“I hope he won’t,” said Edith quickly; “I don’t want you to be friends with such a fellow.”
“Not much danger of that,” Ray answered, “but it’s better to have him for a friend than for an enemy, isn’t it?”
“I doubt that, Ray. You know what mother says, ‘You can’t handle pitch without getting sticky fingers.’ From what I’ve gathered, Crawford is pitch of a pretty bad sort.”