Miss Leslie glanced at him, and thrust a slender foot from beneath her skirt.
“Um-m–stocking torn; but those slippers are tougher than I thought. Most of the way will be good walking, along the beach. We’ll leave the fishing to Pat–er–beg pardon–Win! With his ankle–”
“By Jove, Blake, I’ll chance the ankle. Don’t leave me behind. I give you my word, you’ll not have to lug me.”
“Oh, of course, Mr. Winthrope must go with us!”
“’Fraid to go alone, eh?” demanded Blake, frowning.
His tone startled and offended her; yet all he saw was a politely quizzical lifting of her brows.
“Why should I be afraid, Mr. Blake?” she asked.
Blake stared at her moodily. But when she met his gaze with a confiding smile, he flushed and looked away.
“All right,” he muttered; “well move camp together. But don’t expect me to pack his ludship, if we draw a blank and have to trek back without food or water.”