The girl sympathized with the
bird. If the particular he whose blond top she could barely see by
peeping over the rock would only say something, matters would be
easier for her. But he didn't. So presently, in a voice of
suspiciously saccharine meekness, she said:--
"Please, Mr. Beetle Man, I'm lost."
"No, you're not," he said reassuringly. "You're not a quarter of a
mile from the Puerto del Norte Road."
"But I don't know which direction--"
"Perfectly simple. Keep on over the top of the rock; turn left
down the slope, right up the dry stream bed to a dead tree; bear
right past--"
"That's too many turns, I never could remember more than two."
"Now, listen," he said persuasively. "I can make it quite plain to
you if--"
"I don't WISH to listen! I'll never find it."
"I'll toss you up my compass."
"I don't want your compass," she said firmly.
A long patient sigh exhaled from below.
"Do you want me to guide you?"
"No," she retorted, and was instantly panic-stricken, for the
monosyllable was of that accent which sets fire to bridges and
burns them beyond hope of return.
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