And now once more the strange youth sat contemplating the boy, who seemed to be a tramper like himself, but who, in every other respect, was so vastly different.
He noted the fine, delicately chiseled features, the smallness of his feet, the whiteness and smoothness of his hands. He had seen boys like this before, but he had never before touched one, never had one of them dependent on him, as it were, as this fellow appeared to be now.
Miles Harding did not know just what to do with the responsibility. And yet he was happy at having it; he felt glad that he had been able to do that little thing of carrying the boy from the sun into the shade.
It was not often that he was able to do anything for anybody. He was always in need of having something done for himself.
He tried to think of something else he might do. He noticed that Rex’s head did not seem to rest very comfortably.
He took off his coat and started to make a roll of it for a pillow. But he stopped when he had it half finished.
“Maybe he wouldn’t like that,” he muttered, looking down at the garment as he unrolled it again.
It had been made for a man. There were rents in two places and plentiful sprinklings of grease spots.
The day was growing steadily warmer. Even under the tree one felt the heat.
“He wouldn’t catch cold without his own,” Miles murmured, and he bent over Rex and lifted him gently while he tried to take off his coat.