He broke from his revelations to plump down on the bench beside her, to
slap his palm with his fist, and sigh, "Lord, I've been gassing on!
Guess I bored you!"
"Oh, please, Milt, please! I see it all so---- It must have been
wonderful, the evening when Mrs. Jones read Noyes's 'Highwayman' aloud.
Tell me--long before that--were you terribly lonely as a little boy?"
Now Milt had not been a terribly lonely little boy. He had been a leader
in a gang devoted to fighting, swimming, pickerel-spearing,
beggie-stealing, and catching rides on freights.
But he believed that he was accurately presenting every afternoon of his
childhood, as he mused, "Yes, I guess I was, pretty much. I remember I
used to sit on dad's doorstep, all those long sleepy summer afternoons,
and I'd think, 'Aw, geeeeee, I--wisht--I--had--somebody--to--play--with!'
I always wanted to make-b'lieve Robin Hood, but none of the other
kids--so many of them were German; they didn't know about Robin Hood; so
I used to scout off alone."
"If I could only have been there, to be Maid Marian for you! We'd have
learned archery! Lonely little boy on the doorstep!" Her fingers just
touched his sleeve. In her gesture, the ember-light caught the crystal
of her wrist watch. She stooped to peer at it, and her pitying
tenderness broke off in an agitated: "Heavings! Is it that late? To bed!
Good night, Milt."
"Good night, Cl---- Miss Boltwood."
"No. 'Claire,' of course. I'm not normally a first-name-snatcher, but I
do seem to have fallen into saying 'Milt.' Night!"
As she undressed, in her tent, Claire reflected, "He won't take
advantage of my being friendly, will he? Only thing is---- I sha'n't
dare to look at Henry B. when Milt calls me 'Claire' in that sedate
Brooklyn Heights presence. The dear lamb! Lonely afternoons----!"