Part 14 (1/2)

But Joseph, less diplomatic than I, had not scrupled to seize the moment of Innocentina's recovery to pour into her ears the story of the escaped criminal, and the excitement in which he had plunged the neighbouring country. She was anxious to hurry on as quickly as possible, lest night should overtake her party on the way, and, still pale and tremulous, she sprang eagerly to the work of gathering up the scattered belongings. While she and Joseph put the tea-basket to rights, the boy and I rearranged the gorgeous fittings of the bag, and discovered that not even a single bottle-top was missing.

”What a burden to carry on a donkey's back!” I laughed. ”You are a regular Beau Brummel.”

”Why not?” pleaded the boy. ”I like pretty things, and this is very convenient. It is no trouble for Souris. When the bag is in the _rucksack_, no one would suspect that it is valuable. I have carried all this luggage so, ever since Lucerne, and never had any bother before.”

”What, you too started from Lucerne?”

”Yes. I had Innocentina and the donkeys come up from the Riviera, to meet me there. We have been a long time on the way--weeks: for we have stopped wherever we liked, and as long as we liked. Until to-day we haven't had a single real adventure. I was wis.h.i.+ng for one, but now--well, I suppose most adventures are disagreeable when they are happening, and only turn nice afterwards, in memory.”

”Like caterpillars when they become b.u.t.terflies. But look here, my young friend David, lest you meet another Goliath, I really think you'd better put up with the proximity (I don't say society) of that hateful animal, Man, as far as Aosta. Joseph and I will either keep a few yards in advance, or a few yards in the rear, not to annoy you with our detestable company, but----”

”Please don't be revengeful,” entreated the ex-Brat. ”You have been so good to us, don't be un-good now. I suppose one may hate men, yet be grateful to one man--anyhow, till one finds him out? I can't very well find you out between here and Aosta, can I?--so we may be friends, if you'll walk beside me, neither behind nor in front. I am excited, and feel as if I _must_ have someone to talk to, but I am a little tired of conversation with Innocentina. I know all she has ever thought about since she was born.”

”It's a bargain then,” said I. ”We're friends and comrades--until Aosta. After that----”

”Each goes his own way,” he finished my broken sentence; ”as s.h.i.+ps pa.s.s in the night. But this little sailing boat won't forget that the big bark came to its help, in a storm which it couldn't have weathered alone.”

”Do you know,” said I, as we walked on together, the muleteer and the donkey girl behind us, with the animals, ”you are a very odd boy. I suppose it is being American. Are all American boys like you?”

”Yes,” said he, twinkling, ”all. I am cut on exactly the same pattern as the rest,” and he smiled a charming smile, of which I could not resist the curious fascination. ”Did you never meet any American boys, till you met me?”

”I can't remember having any real conversation with one, except once.

His mother had asked me in his presence (it was in New York) how I liked America, and I had answered that it dazzled me; that the only yearning I felt was for something dark and quiet, and small and uncomfortable. She was rather pleased, but the boy put a string across the drawing-room door when I went out, and tripped me up. Then we had a little conversation--quite a short one--but full of repartee. That's my solitary experience.”

”I should have wanted to trip you up for that speech, too; so you see the likeness is proved. It is a funny thing, I know very few Englishmen. I've met several, but, as you say, I never had any real conversation with them.”

”Maybe, if you had, you wouldn't be so down on your s.e.x when it has reached adolescence.”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'DO YOU KNOW,' SAID I, 'YOU ARE A VERY QUEER BOY'”.]

”I'm afraid there isn't much difference in men, whatever their country. But it's--their att.i.tude towards women which I hate.”

I laughed. ”What do you know about that?”

”I have a sister,” said he, after a minute's pause. And he did not laugh. ”She and I have been--tremendous chums all our lives. There isn't a thing she has done, or a thought she has had, that I don't know, and the other way round, of course.”

”Twins?” I asked.

”She is twenty-one.”

”Oh, four or five years older than you.”

The boy evidently did not take this as a question. ”She is unfortunately an heiress,” he said. ”Money has brought misery upon her, and through her, on me; for if she suffers, I suffer too. She used to believe in everybody. She thought men were even more sincere and upright than women, because their outlook on life was larger, and so it was easy for her to be deceived. When she came out she wasn't quite eighteen (you see we have no father or mother, only a lazy old guardian-uncle), and she thought everyone was wonderfully kind to her, so she was very happy. I suppose there never was a happier girl--for a while. But by-and-bye she began to find out things. She discovered that the men who seemed the nicest only cared for her money, not for her at all.”

”How could she be sure of that?”

”It was proved, over and over again, in lots of ways.”

”But if she is a pretty and charming girl----”