"All that is n't true!" declared the Preacher's son. "I just don't believe they ever could do those things, and have all those animals!"
After all, thought Lonely, there were worse fates than his. What if destiny had foredoomed him to life in a parsonage, and collars and long hair!
"Why, ain't you goin'?" asked the baker's son, loftily, incredulously.
Again Lionel Clarence shook his head.
"Mother said I might, perhaps,—but father decided it would n't look right, you know!"
"Who cares for looks!" cried Lonely, anarchistically, spitting through his teeth.
Lionel Clarence sighed heavily. A gentle little glow suffused Lonely's diaphragm.
"Why don't you just pike out by yourself, same as me? Just mosey off and take it in, and then rub some resin and horse-hairs on, if you 've got to get a lickin'?"
He felt truly sorry for Lionel Clarence.
"Are you goin'?" asked the Preacher's son, rapturously.
"Cert!" said the laconic Lonely, spitting again, the same as a tent-hand might.
