Both girls laughed aloud, at least Mabella did, and Vashti’s full, soft laughter echoed through it like the call of a wood dove.
“My uncle,” said Mabella, with emphasis, “has told us how your father did it.”
“Tut—tut,” said old Lansing, not ill pleased. “Not worth repeating—school-boy capers.”
Afterwards in comparing notes the girls and Sidney found that in every instance the teller of the story had given the other the hero’s rôle to play. A generous thing, surely. Yet, like all true generosity, not barren. For in the imaginations of all these young people, this Damon and Pythias of the New England hills shared a dual glory for deeds of “derring do” against scholastic authority and ghostly reverence; and their names went down to posterity as mighty hunters of the woodchuck.
“Must you really go back to Brixton to-night?” asked Vashti of Sidney, as they alighted from the democrat waggon. The man trembled as he looked upon her, so strongly had her individuality impressed him.
“Yes,” he said. “I must go back to-night, but,” he added, not concealing his eagerness, “I shall return.”
“Whenever you can, and the sooner the better,” said old Lansing, interrupting him.
“Monday, then,” said Sidney.
“Monday be it,” replied the old man, pleased with his eagerness. “You want to get browned up a bit,” he added. “Have you been ill?”