So Edith kept quiet, and he wandered up the stream, and she wandered down the stream, and they fished, and they fished—and they never caught a thing.
"I had one bite," Johnny said when, at about eleven, fiercely hungry, they met on the bank where they had left their lunch basket; "but you burst out about Eleanor, and drove him off. Girls simply can't fish."
Edith was contrite—but doubted the bite. Then they sat down on a mossy rock, and ate stacks of sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, and watched the water, and talked, talked, talked. At least Edith talked—mostly about Maurice. Johnny lit his pipe, puffed once or twice, then let it go out and sat staring into the green wall of the woods on the other side of the brook. Then, suddenly, quietly, he began to speak....
"I want to say something."
"The mosquitoes here are awful!" Edith said, nervously; "don't you think we'd better go home?"
"Look here, Edith; you've got to be half decent to me—unless, of course, you've soured on me? If you have, I'll shut up."
"Johnny, don't be an idiot! 'Course I haven't soured on you. You're the oldest friend I've got. Older than Maurice, even."
"Well, I guess I am an older friend than Maurice! But lately you've treated me like a dog. You skulk round to keep from being by ourselves. You never give me a chance to open my head to you—"
"Johnny, that's perfectly absurd! I've had to look after Eleanor—"
"Eleanor nothing! It's me you want to shake."