“No, indeed; I am my own master,” he said, with a toss of his head. “Besides, I don’t like you to be riding so late all by yourself.”
The imitation of Steve Allen’s protecting manner was so unmistakable that Ruth could not help smiling.
“Oh! I’m not afraid. No one would interfere with me.”
“They’d better not! If they did, they’d soon hear from me,” declared the boy, warmly, with that mannish toss of the head which boys have. “I’d soon show ’em who Rupert Gray is. Oh! I say! I met Washy Still up the road yonder, a little way back, looking as sour as vinegar, and you ought to have seen the way I cut him. I passed him just like this” (giving an imitation of his stare), “and you just ought to have seen the way he looked. He looked as if he’d have liked to shoot me.” He burst into a clear, merry laugh.
The boy’s description of himself was so exactly like the way Ruth had treated Steve, that she could not forbear smiling. The smile died away, however, and an expression of seriousness took its place.
“Rupert, I don’t think it well to make enemies of people——”
“Who? Of Washy Still? Pshaw! He knows I hate him—and he hates me. I don’t care. I want him to hate me. I’ll make him hate me worse before I’m done.” It was the braggadocio of a boy.
Ruth thought of the gleam of hate that had come into the man’s eyes. “He might do you an injury.”
“Who? Washy Still? Let him try it. I’m a better man than he is, any day. But he’d never try it. He’s afraid to look me in the eyes. You don’t like him, do you?” he asked with sudden earnestness.
“No, but I think you underestimate him.”