Ben Blair Part 10

"Because you don't play right!"

"You told me to knock the duck off, and I did!"

"But not that way." Florence's small chin was high in the air. "I'm going in the house."

Ben made no motion to follow her, none to prevent her going.

"I'm sorry," he said simply.

The little girl took two steps decidedly, a third haltingly, a fourth, then stopped and looked back out of the corner of her eye.

"Are you very sorry?" she asked.

Ben nodded his head gravely.

There was a moment of indecision. "All right," she said, with apparent reluctance; "but we won't play duck any more. We'll play drop the handkerchief."

The boy discreetly ignored the change of purpose.

"I don't know how," he admitted once more.

Such deplorable ignorance aroused her sympathy.

"Don't Mr. Rankin, or--or anyone--play with you?" she asked.

Ben shook his head.

"All right, then," she said obligingly, "I'll show you."

With her heel she drew upon the ground a rough circle about ten feet in diameter.

"You can't cross that place in there," she said.

The boy looked at the bare ground critically. No visible barrier presented itself to his vision.

"Why not?" he asked.

Florence made a gesture of disapproval. "Because you can't," she explained. Then, some further reason seeming necessary, she added, "Perhaps there are red-hot irons or snakes, or something, in there.

Anyway, you can't cross!"

Ben made no comment, and his instructor looked at him a moment doubtfully.

"Now," she went on, "I stand right here close to the line, and you take the handkerchief." She produced a dainty little kerchief with a "B"

embroidered in the corner. "Drop it behind me, and get in my place if you can before I touch you. If you get clear around and catch me before I notice you--you can kiss me. Do you see?"

Ben could see.

"All right, then." And the little girl stood at attention, very prim, apparently very watchful, toes touching the line.

The nature of Benjamin Blair was very direct. The first time he pa.s.sed, he dropped the handkerchief and proceeded calmly on his journey. His back toward her, the little girl turned and gave a surrept.i.tious glance behind; then quickly s.h.i.+fted to her original position, a look of innocence upon her face. Straight ahead went Ben around the circle--that contained hot irons, or snakes, or something--back to his starting-point, touched the small fragment of femininity upon the shoulder gingerly, as though afraid she would fracture.

"Here's your handkerchief," he said, stooping to recover the bit of linen. "You're it."

"Oh, dear!" she said, in mock despair; "you dropped it the first time, didn't you?"

Ben agreed to the statement.

An unaccountable lull followed. In it he caught a curious sidelong glance from the brown eyes under the drooping lashes.

"I didn't suppose you'd do that the first time," said the little girl.

"Papa never does."

The observation seemed irrelevant to Ben Blair, at least inadequate to halt the game; but he made no comment.

Again there was a lull.

"Well," suggested Florence, and a tinge of red surged beneath the soft brown skin.

Ben began to feel uncomfortable. He had a premonition that all was not well.

"You're _it_, ain't you?" he hesitated at last.

This time, full and fair, the tiny woman looked at him. The color which before had stood just beneath the skin rose burning to her ears, to the roots of her hair. Her big brown eyes flashed fire.

"Ben Blair," she flamed, "you're a 'fraid cat!" Tears welled up into her voice, into her eyes, and she made a motion as if to leave; but the sudden pa.s.sion of a spoiled child was too strong upon her, the mystified face of the other too near, too tempting. With a motion which was all but involuntary, a tiny brown hand shot out and struck the boy fair on the mouth. "A 'fraid cat, 'fraid cat, and I hate you!"

Never before in his short life had Benjamin Blair met a girl. The ethics of s.e.x was a thing unknown to him, but nevertheless some instinct prevented his returning the insult. Except for the red mark upon his lips, his face grew very white.

"What am I afraid of?" he asked steadily.

Defiant still, the girl held her ground.

"Afraid of what?" she jeered. "You're afraid of everything! 'Fraid cats always are!"

"But what?" pressed the boy. "Tell me something I'm afraid of."

Florence glanced about her. The tall roof of the barn caught her vision.

"You wouldn't dare jump off the roof there, for one thing," she ventured.

Ben looked up. The point mentioned arose at least sixteen feet, and the earth beneath was frozen like asphalt, but he did not hesitate. At the north end, a stack of hay piled against the wall formed a sort of inclined plane, and making a detour he began to climb. Half-way up he lost his footing and came tumbling to the ground; but still he said nothing. The next time he was more careful, and reached the ridge-pole without accident. Below, the little girl, brilliant in her red jacket, stood watching him; but he never even glanced at her. Instead, he raised himself to his full height, looked once at the ground beneath, and jumped.

That instant a wave of contrition swept over Florence. In a sort of vision she saw the boy lying injured, perhaps dead, upon the frozen ground,--and all through her fault! She shut her eyes, and clasped her hands over her face.

A few seconds pa.s.sed, bringing with them no further sound, and she slowly opened her fingers. Through them, instead of a prostrate corpse, she saw the boy standing erect before her. There was a smear of dust upon his coat and face where he had fallen, and a scratch upon his cheek, which bled a bit, but otherwise he was apparently unhurt. From beneath his long lashes as she looked, the blue eyes met hers, deliberate and unsmiling.

As swiftly as it had come, the mood of contrition pa.s.sed. In an indefinite sort of way the girl experienced a sensation of disappointment,--a feeling of being deprived of something which was her due. She was only a child, a spoiled child, and her defiance arose anew.

A moment so the children faced each other.