“Martin,” she whispered, “I like you better than any of the other boys, oh, a great deal better, even though Evelyn Atkinson does say you are a milksop.”
What a hateful word to apply to one whose flesh was scarred by the claws of an infuriated wildcat conquered in fair fight. Milksop, indeed! He knew Angèle’s ways well enough by this time to give convincing proof that he was no milksop.
He placed his bandaged right arm around her waist, boldly drew her toward him, and kissed her three times—on the lips.
“That is more than I ever did to Evelyn Atkinson,” he said.
She returned the embrace with ardor.
“Oh, Martin, I do love you,” she sighed. “And you fought for me as well as for Elsie, didn’t you?”
If the thought were grateful to Angèle, it stung the boy’s conscience. Under what different circumstances had he defended the two girls! He grew scarlet with confusion and sought to unclasp those twining arms.
“Someone may see us,” he protested.
“I don’t care,” she cooed. “Tommy Beadlam is watching us now over the hedge. Tell him to go away.”
He wrenched himself free. True enough, “White Head” was gazing at them, eyes and mouth wide open.