"Well, you see, we're busy here—desperately busy. Dawson's always grumbling that we're short-handed——"
Betty came up close to him, and he suddenly felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder.
"You don't want to come," she said.
"'Tisn't that—not exactly."
He kept his eyes turned from her.
"You see," he went on, "you'll have such a heap of folk there. They mostly all get around—for you. Then there'll be Jim Truscott, and Jim's worth a dozen of me when it comes to picnics and 'sociables' and such-like."
The girl's hand suddenly dropped from his shoulder, and she turned away. A flush slowly mounted to her sun-tanned cheeks, and she was angry at it. She stood looking out at the mills beyond, but she wasn't thinking of them.
At last she turned back to her friend and her soft eyes searched his.
"If—if you don't come to the picnic to-morrow, I'll never forgive you, Dave—never!"
And she was gone before his slow tongue could frame a further excuse.