“What—rot?”
“About some black handers being hidden in that shack.”
Barbara’s mark of contempt was not quite a word—a mere suggestion of one.
“As if that nonsense should have made you forget your promise,” she presently continued bitterly.
“I didn’t forget it.”
“No?” Again that seething scorn. Babs knew how to use her voice when she wanted to be sarcastic.
“Oh, say!” The boy was despairing of making her understand him. “Just wait until I tell you. You see, Louise or Esther, I don’t know which began to—well, to suggest that little Nicky was one of a gang. Oh, it was so silly, Babs, I just got mad and drove them over there to prove they were crazy.” Dudley Burke could be just as independent as Barbara Hale.
“Did you prove it?” sarcasm again.
“I tell you, honestly, I thought I was doing a good thing. I thought we would just run over there and I’d whistle for Nicky, and when he came out I’d ask him if he had any more candlesticks for sale,” Dudley explained, simply.
His distress and his sincerity broke down Babs’ fighting spirit. How could she blame him? He had actually tried to do something to help the little Italians. He could not have guessed at her unreasonable fears.