"Roy! Florence is waiting!" said my unrelenting mother.
There was no appeal. To use a vulgar, but expressive phrase, I was "in
for it;" and, nerved by a sort of desperate courage, which sometimes
comes to the aid of the weak in great extremities, I flung open the door,
blundered down the steps, and out into the street. Florence followed
leisurely behind, shut the gate after her, and fastened the latch. How I
envied her her provoking coolness!
We went on; she one side of the road--I the other, and about three yards
in advance of her. By-and-bye, when we had proceeded in utter silence for
a quarter of a mile, my companion said, demurely:
"Roy, you can get over the fence, and go in the field; and I will keep
the road."
The little jade was quizzing me. I could not endure her ridicule, so
forthwith I made a sort of flying leap to her side of the street,
spattering the mud in every direction as I alighted beside her. I had
just begun to think how much better the footing was on that sidewalk than
the one I had just left, when I heard somebody whistling, and, looking
up, I saw Will Richardson, a mutual acquaintance, approaching. The cold
perspiration started to my brow--how could I endure to be seen going home
with a girl? I could not! No, never! The idea was out of the question!
I flew to the wall, sprang over, and threw myself down behind a pile of
stones.
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