“Because—because,” began the boy hesitatingly—“because I don’t want to go.”
Hall became angry. Like most boys not sure of the honesty of their own motives, he disliked to have it suggested that what he was urging was wrong. He therefore replied, with a taunt keener than any persuasion—
“Poor little milksop, I suppose he’s afraid of getting drowned, or of doing something his mamma, or his grandmamma, or somebody wouldn’t like their little pet to do. We’d better put him ashore, boys; and mind his precious little boots don’t get wet while we’re about it!”
It was a cruel blow, and struck home at Archer’s one weak point.
Plucky and adventurous as he was, the one thing he could not endure was to be laughed at. And his face flushed, and his lips quivered, as he heard Hall’s brutal speech, and marked the smile with which, I am ashamed to say, we received it.
“I’m not afraid,” he exclaimed.
“Then why don’t you want to go?”
He was silent for some time. A struggle was evidently going on in his mind. But the sneer on Hall’s face determined him.
“I do want to go. I’ve changed my mind!”
“That’s the style,” said Hutton, patting him on the back. “I knew you were one of the right sort.”