Young Smith said nothing.  Miss Keith, however, spoke her mind.

“Of course we can’t wait,” she declared.  “I’m sure these will do.  They will do, won’t they, Crawford?”

And still Crawford remained silent.  Mary-’Gusta, who was enjoying this portion of the interview as much as she had disliked its beginning, offered a suggestion.

“If you will just come here and look at these,” she said, with mischievous gravity, addressing the young gentleman on the nail keg, “perhaps you can tell whether they’re fresh enough.”

The young gentleman did not rise.  His face retained its brilliant color and his lips moved, but his answer was not audible.  At his age the dread of appearing ridiculous, especially in the presence of a youthful and charming female, is above all others hateful.  And Edna Keith was not the only girl in the picnic party; there were others.  She would be certain to tell them.  Crawford Smith foresaw a horrible day, a day of disgrace and humiliation, one in which he was destined to furnish amusement without sharing the fun.  And Sam Keith, who had remarked upon the splendor of his friend’s attire, would gloat—­not only here in South Harniss, but elsewhere—­in Cambridge, for instance.  An older man would have risen, laughed whether he felt like laughing or not—­and have expressed his opinion of fly paper.  Crawford was not yet a man; he was in the transition stage, a boy fondly hoping that other people might think him a man.  So he sat still until it was too late to rise, and then wished he had risen in the first place.

“My goodness!” exclaimed the fidgety Miss Keith, “why don’t you look at them, Crawford?  What are you waiting for?”

Mary-’Gusta, the box of marshmallows in her hand, regarded the boy on the nail keg.  His eyes met hers and in them was a look of such utter misery that the girl relented.  Her feeling of satisfied resentment changed to one almost of pity.  She had been made to feel ridiculous herself at various times in her short life and she remembered the sensation.  Mary-’Gusta, as has been mentioned before in this history, was old for her years.

She considered a moment.  Then she thrust the box beneath the counter.

“I guess I’d better not sell you those, anyway,” she said with decision.  “Uncle Zoeth said they weren’t fresh.  I’ll open the case in the back room.”

Edna stamped her foot.

“We can’t wait for that,” she declared.  “We must go without them, I suppose.  Oh, dear!  And they depended on us to get them.  It’s so provoking.  Now we can’t have any toast at all and it would have been such fun.”

Mary-’Gusta glanced once more at the occupant of the keg.

“I was thinking,” she said, slowly, “that you needn’t both wait unless you wanted to.  Perhaps Miss Keith might go on and tell the others and—­er—­Mr. Smith could stay here until I opened the box.  Then he could meet you at the boat.”