“Oh, I've done it louder,” he declared, “Listen!”
She seized his hands, snatching them away from his lips. At this critical moment I appeared around the corner considerably out of breath, my heart beating like a watchman's rattle. I tried to feign nonchalance.
“Hello, Tom,” I said. “Hello, Nancy. What's the matter?”
“It's Tom—he frightened me out of my senses.” Dropping his wrists, she gave me a most disconcerting look; there was in it the suspicion of a smile. “What are you doing here, Hugh?”
“I heard Tom,” I explained.
“I should think you might have. Where were you?”
“Over in another street,” I answered, with deliberate vagueness. Nancy had suddenly become demure. I did not dare look at her, but I had a most uncomfortable notion that she suspected the plot. Meanwhile we had begun to walk along, all three of us, Tom, obviously ill at ease and discomfited, lagging a little behind. Just before we reached the corner I managed to kick him. His departure was by no means graceful.
“I've got to go;” he announced abruptly, and turned down the side street. We watched his sturdy figure as it receded.
“Well, of all queer boys!” said Nancy, and we walked on again.
“He's my best friend,” I replied warmly.