"Tom Benson likes Charlie. He likes him an awful lot. And Charlie doesn't
do nearly so many things as I do. I guess I oughtn't to tell, Tiger, but
you and Tops wouldn't tell tales, so 'tisn't the same as tellin' father, or
mother, or Auntie Kate, is it, Tige? But I think he might like me a little
wee bit, don't you, Tiger?" And Harold could see the blue blouse sleeve
raised to brush away the hot tears.
Harold drew back quietly, and tiptoed down the walk to the street. He had
forgotten all about the ball. His eyes were so misty that he did not notice
Charlie Benson, waiting for him at the gate, until Tom called:--
"Hello there! I thought you were never coming, What kept you?"
"Say, is Charlie going?" asked Harold, suddenly.
"Of course I am!" cried the little fellow, cutting a caper on the sidewalk.
"Tom said I could. Didn't you, Tom?"
Tom laughed good-naturedly. "He was bound to come," he said. "He won't
bother us."
"Well--I--think Bob wants to come, too," said Harold, hesitatingly, "and if
Charlie is going--"
"O, goody!" cried Charlie, who was Bobby's special chum. "Where is he?"
Harold put his fingers to his lips, and uttered two sharp whistles.
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