“I dare say! I was only joking, lad.”
The last words and their tone destroyed my hopes. It is inconvenient to possess a conscience. Advantageous though the bargain was that Tod had made, and delightfully though our days were passing, I could not feel easy until they knew of it at home.
“I wish you would let me write and tell them, Tod.”
“No,” said he. “I don’t want the pater to whirl himself off here and spoil our peace—for that’s what would come of it.”
“He thinks we are in some way with the Temples. His letter implied it.”
“The best thing he can think.”
“But I want to write to the mother, Tod. She must be wondering why we don’t.”
“Wondering won’t give her the fever, lad. Understand me, Mr. Johnny: you are not to write.”
Breakfast over in the morning, we crossed the meadows to the trout stream, with the fishing-tackle and a basket of frogs. Tod complained of the intense heat. The dark blue sky was cloudless; the sun beat down upon our heads.
“I’ll tell you what, Johnny,” he said, when we had borne the blaze for an hour on the banks, the fish refusing to bite: “we should be all the cooler for our umbrellas. You’ll have a sunstroke, if you don’t look out.”