“Betty wants to have one last paddle down the bay,” he said casually.
“Well,” I replied, “why doesn’t she go?”
“Can’t go alone comfortably in that long canoe, you know. It won’t
handle except with some one in the bow.”
“Are you busy?” I tried to be sarcastic and failed.
“It’s your turn to go,” he said. “She—she said so, old man. Go along,
now. Good luck.”
* * * * *
I took my place in the bow without a word, without our eyes meeting. I
was in no shape to paddle and sat with the paddle across my knees.
Betty began to paddle. Presently she stopped. We sat silent while the
canoe drifted.
“I’d like to see our—to see that cave again, if you don’t mind,” she
said timidly. “Do you?”
“Why should I?” I said.
Not a word more did we speak as we went through the gap into the bay
proper nor while she paddled down to our landing-place. She steered
the canoe past the rock where we had gone ashore to avoid leaving
tracks behind us, and landed on the sandy beach. I got out stiffly and
sat down upon a boulder.
“We’re not going to play Injun this morning, then?” she said with a
wan attempt at gaiety.
“No,” said I. “Why should we? There’s no necessity now.”
“Don’t—don’t you ever play Injun except when it’s necessary?” she said
reproachfully.