It--"
He turned back from his musings, aware for the first time that a
right sprightly dialogue was going on. Cyril was demanding for
the eighth time:
"WHY won't you tell me? Aw, I think you might! What's going to
happen that's so nice, Friday?"
"Wait till Friday and see," laughed the Mistress.
"Shucks!" he snorted. "You might tell me, now. I don't want to
wait and get s'prised. I want to know, NOW. Tell me!"
Under her tolerant smile, the youngster's voice scaled to an
impatient whine. He was beginning to grow red.
"Let it go at that!" ordained the Master. "Don't spoil your own
fun, by trying to find out, beforehand. Be a good sportsman."
"Fun!" snarled Cyril. "What's the fun of secrets? I want to
know--"
"It's snowing," observed the Mistress, as a handful of flakes
began to drift past the windows, tossed along on a puff of wind.
"I want to KNOW!" half-wept the child; angry at the change of
subject, and noting that the Mistress was moving toward the next
room, with Lad at her heels. "Come back and tell me!"
He stamped after her to bar her way.
Pages:
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198