"I think," she said, condescendingly, "if I go, I'll go 'round by the road way—it's shorter."
The "road way" was a good deal longer, but it was out of the reach of Cary's father and the fort.
She wiped her dry eyes on one of Johnny's handkerchiefs—Johnny always had more than one, while Rob and herself frequently went "shares" on a stolen or a borrowed one—and then she raced Rob to the end of the drawbridge.
Cary's conscience was troubling her. She told herself it was her stomach and the lemon pie she had appropriated from the pantry shelf, but it was undoubtedly her conscience, mingled with a fear that papa-lieutenant or some of the other officers might loom in sight and inquiring into the project, carry her off.
Ahead, thirteen-year old Johnny was moralizing.
"Perhaps we oughtn't to take her—she's so little."
"She's seven," said Rob, "and what's going to hurt her?" He kept his eyes away from the over-clouding sky.
"I don't know—" said the cautious Johnny, "but—"
"I guess we can take care of a small girl like her. You're thirteen and I'm eleven."
At the water edge, conscience spoke once more but was overruled when at Johnny's question as to the judiciousness of her going, Rob declared she was afraid.