Page:Solo (1924).pdf/43

 He also ate a piece of candy, and smiled again. Paul was in the grip of emotions which made speech precarious.

"I'll play you allies after supper," Walter proposed. "For lends—not keeps."

"Got to practise. Been away all day."

"To-morrow, then."

"To-morrow's Sunday."

"We can play after Sunday-school, behind the schoolhouse. Nobody'll see."

Paul agreed and turned toward the house. Walter called him back.

"I'm sorry I chucked that snowball," he said. His eyes and his smile were evidence that it cost him little to apologize.

Paul stiffened. "What snowball?" he inquired. He knew the dissembling was lost on Walter, but he also knew that Walter would handle his pride with tact. Walter's tact in the old days had been one of the virtues that had made their relation possible.

"That day I was playing with John," he explained.

"What difference does it make to me how much you play with John?"

"He's awful stupid," Walter pursued. "I like you best."

"Then what did you put red ink on my sandwiches for?" Paul cried, with a hint of pent-up anguish, whereupon Walter again smiled his penitence.

"See you to-morrow, eh?"

Again Paul nodded and hurried down the unkempt path toward the house. Gee-rusalem!

There was much to tell Aunt Verona about Bridgetown and the little mare, and supper in the kitchen was a heart-warming meal. Aunt Verona listened kindly and was pleased with the pen-wiper. But she was dismayed when he put down his knife and fork in the middle of supper