“With not a soul to speak to,” said Mr. Boom pointedly.
The other kicked at a small crab which was passing, and returned it to its native element in sections.
“I’ll walk up there with you if you’re going that way,” he said at length.
“No, I’m just having a look round,” said Mr. Boom, “but there’s nothing to hinder you going, Dick, if you’ve a mind to.”
“There’s no little thing you want, as I’m going there, I s’pose?” suggested Tarrell. “It’s awkward when you go there and say, ‘Good-morning,’ and the girl says, ‘Good-morning,’ and then you don’t say any more and she don’t say any more. If there was anything you wanted that I could help her look for, it ’ud make talk easier.”
“Well—go for my baccy pouch,” said Mr. Boom, after a minute’s thought, “it’ll take you a long time to find that.”
“Why?” inquired the other.
“’Cos I’ve got it here,” said the unscrupulous Mr. Boom, producing it, and placidly filling his pipe.
“You might spend—ah—the best part of an hour looking for that.”
He turned away with a nod, and Tarrell, after looking about him in a hesitating fashion to make sure that his movements were not attracting the attention his conscience told him they deserved, set off in the hang-dog fashion peculiar to nervous lovers up the road to the cottage. Kate Boom was sitting at the door as her father had described, and, in apparent unconsciousness of his approach, did not raise her eyes from her book. “Good-morning,” said Tarrell, in a husky voice.