"Rather—or somewhere else."
Boney's curiosity was pricked again—"Where?"
"Well, Africa."
"Why—what part?"
"The Gold Coast. It must be wonderful. Why it sounds wonderful. . . . Dangerous, too. You get fevers there; they use poisoned arrows. And there are snakes and—" He checked himself sharply, and wished he had held his tongue when the other asked, "But what could you do there? It sounds as if it isn't a place for a boy. . . . Got any people there?"
Richard shook his head, and anxious as he felt to change the subject, could think of nothing to divert it. Boney went on promptly. "I thought you said once that your father was there—you know, when we had to write an essay about countries. I thought you said it was Africa, somewhere."
"No—South America," answered Richard steadily. He couldn't bear that Boney should be trying thus to force him into talking of his secret thoughts.
"O well! Who wants to go to South America?" And as Boney ended Richard told him quickly, "I saw such a fine dragon-fly this morning—over by Crispin's Pool. I expect there'll be a lot there. Why don't you take your net?"
"It's too far to-day. I'm not supposed to go much away from the house while mother isn't at home. I might to-morrow."
"With Myra?"
"What an ass! She won't go and I shouldn't want to take her. Shed only be a nuisance if I did."
Richard looked angrily at Boney as he spoke, but the latter said, "I can't come any further, I shall have to run to get home for lunch."
The next minute Richard was watching Boney's awkward thick figure lurching hastily off. He murmured to himself in extremest disdain and envy, "Caspar David—Caspar David Alexander"; and then, "Myra Alexander, Myra. . . ." Miserable enough, he sat down at last to eat the lunch that had oozed its greasy patch against the lining of his old coat.
A dishevelled tramp shuffled by just as Richard finished his lunch. He scarcely saw the boy, but Richard watched him closely as he shambled on. He wondered how a man could like going
