Motheh, may I go out to thwim?
Yeth, my darlin' daughter;
Hang your cloth' ...
Of course Margery knew that their wit was aimed at Henry, not at her. But she breathed freer, nevertheless, once out of ear-shot.
Henry dragged her homeward at a furious pace. He held her arm so tightly that it ached. The worst was that she couldn't make him argue about it. He simply held on without talking.
"You just let my arm go, Henry Blair," she whimpered again and again. "You ain't got any right to hurt me."
But Henry would only close his mouth more grimly and push on.
"Ain't you got any sense, Henry Blair? I ain't tryin' to run off."
She might just as well be talking to a post.
Even the threat, "If you don't let me go, I'll holler," fell on deaf ears.
This was said after they had reached the civilization of streets and houses, where their appearance caused a mild sensation. And small wonder. Margery's stockings were down in rolls about her ankles. Behind, her dress was gaping open where Henry had missed the buttons. In places there were yellow stains where the wet of her body had soaked through. Her face was streaked with mud and her hair was drying in a stiff mat that hung down heavily over her eyes. The once gorgeous hair ribbon was little better than a lump of mud.
Several little girls on different porches called out in amazed curiosity, "Why, Margery, what is the matter?" and a boy or two, staring hard, remarked, "Hello, Henry. What you doin'?" For all the attention he paid, Henry might not have heard. With lips tightly closed, eyes looking straight ahead, he rushed on, never once relaxing hold of his miserable victim's arm.