“Hello!” said Hedges, gruffly, when he had recovered from his surprise. “You've sure made yourself comfortable.”
Seabury gave a start and raised his head. For a moment his look was veiled, abstracted, as if his mind still lingered on the book lying open in his lap. Then recognition slowly dawned, and a faint flush crept into his face.
“The—the wood was here, and I—I didn't think there'd be any harm in lighting it,” he said, thrusting back a straggling lock of brown hair.
“I don't s'pose there is,” returned Hedges, shortly. Unconsciously, he was a little annoyed that Seabury should seem so comfortable and content. “I thought you were upstairs.”
He dragged a chair to the other side of the hearth and plumped down in it. “What you reading?” he asked.
Seabury's eyes brightened. “Treasure Island,” he answered eagerly. “It's awfully exciting. I've just got to the place where—”
“Never read it,” interrupted the big fellow, indifferently. Lounging back against the leather cushions, he surveyed the slim, brown-eyed, rather pale-faced boy with a sort of contemptuous curiosity. “Do you read all the time?” he asked.
Again the blood crept up into Seabury's thin face and his lids drooped. “Why, no—not all the time,” he answered slowly. “But—but just now there's nothing else to do.”
Hedges grunted. “Nothing else to do! Gee-whiz! Don't you ever feel like going for a tramp or something? I s'pose you can't snow-shoe, or skee, but I shouldn't think you'd want to stay cooped up in the house all the time.”
A faint, nervous smile curved the boy's sensitive lips. “Oh, I can skee and snow-shoe all right, but—” He paused, noticing the incredulous expression which Hedges was at no pains to hide. “Everybody does, where I live in Canada,” he explained, “often it's the only way to get about.”