I backed away.
"I am," she said. Her mounting color showed that she was at least not angry, and she gave proof of it.
"Can you tell me? Is not that the way to Dr. Davis's house?"
"Yes—I will show you which it is." My manner had become most respectful.
"Oh! Don't trouble yourself, I beg you."
"It is not the least trouble," I said sincerely, and it was the only truth I had told. I walked back a few steps, hat in hand, pointing eagerly to the house. And as I left, I said, "I hope you will pardon my stupid mistake."
"Oh! I do not think it stupid. She is a beauty."
"I think so." I bowed low. I saw the color rise again as I turned away, much pleased with myself, and yet a good deal ashamed, too.
When I returned to "the lair," as we termed Sam Pleasants's room, the boys seized me. They were like howling dervishes. But I had grown serious. I was very much ashamed of myself. And I did the only decent thing I could—I lied, or as good as lied.
"I will give the supper if you will stop this yelling. Do you suppose I would make a bet about a girl I did not know?"