“Yes, good company, of course,” she said with a quick, friendly glance. “And you ARE good company to-day.”
“To-day?”
“Yes. Sometimes, you know, you are rather—I don't know what to say—but queer, as if you did not like—people, or were carrying some terrible secret,” she added with a little laugh.
“Secret? I am, but not for long. I am going to tell you the secret. Do you want to hear it now?”
The note of desperation in his voice startled the girl. “Oh, no,” she cried hurriedly. “Where have we got to? There are no birds in this open prairie here. We must get back to the stubble.”
“You are not interested in my secret, then?” said Jack. “But I am going to tell you all the same, Kathleen.”
“Oh, please don't,” she replied in a distressed voice. “We are having such a splendid time, and besides we are after birds, aren't we? And there are the others,” she added, pointing across the stubble field, “and Sweeper is on point again. Oh, let's run.” She started forward quickly, her foot caught in a tangle of vetch vine and she pitched heavily forward. Jack sprang to catch her. A shot crashed at their ears. The girl lay prone.
“My God, Kathleen, are you hurt?” said Jack.
“No, no, not a bit, but awfully scared,” she panted. Then she shrieked, “Oh, oh, oh, Jack, you are wounded, you are bleeding!”
He looked down at his hand. It was dripping blood. “Oh, oh,” she moaned, covering her face with her hands. Then springing to her feet, she caught up his hand in hers.