“No,” Mike corrected. “This way more.” He was looking at his compass. “We better scram. Dat note says no time to lose.”
“But, Tony? What about him?” the girl protested.
“Oh, Tony,” the boy’s brow wrinkled. Well enough Florence knew the bond of undying friendship between these two boys.
“Oh, Tony.” There was a forced note of cheerfulness in Mike’s voice. “Tony’s a Dago. He’s made out of tin cans, old asbestos an’ other scrap. He wouldn’t burn.” The laugh that followed was far from real.
Florence was touched. She swallowed a tear, swayed a little, then said simply,
“Al-all right, let’s go.” And what else was there to do?
“We’ll let out a yell now and then,” said Mike.
Gathering Plumdum into her ample arms, Florence led the way.
Their way ran across the dried-up bog. The ground was soft. For some distance their footprints remained plainly marked. At last these prints were lost on the rocky slopes beyond.
Now and again Mike paused to shout, “Yo-ho!”