"No?"
"He said—that fellow said—he said I wouldn't dare to come up here and tell you that I can—do anything I want to do."
"That's just what you've been doing, Hervey."
"But you know I'm good on stunts? And he said—this is just what he said—he said I couldn't do that kind of a stunt—staying here when I'm told to. He dared me to. Would you take a double dare if you were me? They're worse than single ones."
"N-no, I don't know that I would," said Mr. Denny, thoughtfully.
"He said I wouldn't dare—do you know what a four flusher is?"
"Why—y-es."
"He said I wouldn't dare to come up here and tell you that I know I'm wrong to make so much trouble and he said I couldn't do a stunt like staying in camp. Would you let any fellow call you a Camp-fire Girl—would you? Gee Williger, that stunt's a cinch!"
Mr. Denny closed his book, leaving his pen in it as a book-mark, and clasping his hands, listened attentively. It was the first slight sign of surrender. He looked inquiringly and not unkindly at the figure that stood before him in the dim lantern light. He noted the torn clothing, the wrinkled stocking, the outlandish hat with its holes and trinkets. He could see, just see, those clear gray eyes, honest, reckless, brave....
"Yes, Hervey?"