‘Oh, that ain’t nothin’,’ he said awkwardly, digging his heel into the turf, all aglow with novel emotions.  Never had he felt quite so grand before.

‘Dick, will you take a message from me to—­to—­’ The young woman was toying with his sleeve, her cheeks were ruddy, and the girlish timidity she displayed was in quaint contrast with her fine face and commanding figure.

‘To Harry Hardy?’ said Dick, with ready conjecture.

‘Yes,’ said Chris.  ’However could you have guessed that?  Tell him I am very thankful to him—­’

‘Fer clearin’ out Sunday.  Yes, I’ll tell him.  I say, Miss Chris, do you know I think he’s awful fond o’ you—­awful.’

‘No, Dick, he is not.  He hates us—­father and I.’

‘No fear, he don’t.  He was at our place Sunday night, lookin’ at that photo of you in our albium.  He looked at it more’n he looked at all the rest put together, an’ kep’ sneakin’ peeps, an’ that don’t show hate, if you ask me.’

Dick was half an hour late for school that afternoon, but he never faced Joel ham with a lighter heart or more careless mien.  The master pretended to be absorbed in a patch on the roof till Dick had almost reached his seat; then he beckoned the boy, took him on the point of his cane, like a piece of toast, and backed him against the wall, where he held him transfixed for a few moments, blinking humorously.

‘Ginger, my boy, I regret to have to say it, but you are late again.’

‘Never said I wasn’t,’ said Dick, accepting the inevitable.

’True, Ginger, perfectly true.  Any explanation?  But let me warn you anything you may say will be taken down as evidence against you.’

‘I was visitin’—­visitin’ Mr. John Summers up at The House’ (Summers’ residence was always ’The Rouse ’), ‘an’—­an’ he detained me.’

Joel’s face suddenly fell into wrinkles, and his disengaged fingers clawed his sparse whiskers.

‘And you used to be quite a clever liar, Ginger,’ he said with philosophical regret.

‘Arsk Jock Summers yerseif if you don’t believe me,’ growled the boy.

‘No, no,’ said the master shaking his head sadly, ’you are lying very badly to-day, Ginger.  You have the heart to do it, but not the art.  Hold up!

Dick’s hand went out unfalteringly.

‘One,’ said the master.  ’Two!  Hurt, eh?  Well, be consoled with the reflection that all knowledge is simply pain codified.  Three!  Four—­no, I will owe you the fourth.’

Jacker Mack, and Ted, and Peterson were prey to the wildest curiosity.  Peterson risked cuts with criminal recklessness in his efforts to communicate with Dick when the latter took his seat, and Jacker, who sat next, edged up close to Dick and whispered excitedly: 

‘What happened?  What’d he do?  Where yer been?’

‘Been,’ said Dick, ‘oh, just havin’ dinner up at The House.’

‘Wha-at—­with ole Jock?’