The Forge boy wanted to flee or wanted to cry; he couldn’t quite decide which. And because he couldn’t decide he stayed where he was and waited for the rocking hysteria of reaction to pass.
“Let’s—let’s—do it again,” the girl suggested, as the boy sat stiffly, vaguely remembering something about the eye of God being upon the sinner even in the wilderness.
They went through that ecstasy again and again. And astounding to record, the boy suddenly leaned over with his face on his arm.
“Natie Forge! What in the world is the matter?” cried the stupefied girl.
“Dunno,” said the lad. “But somehow I feel we oughtn’t.”
“Well, I like that! Why oughtn’t we?”
“Dunno. And besides—it hurts!”
“Hurts? What hurts?”
“Didn’t you never have anything happen to you that felt so good it hurt?”
“Well, you are a queer one!”