"Look here, Nance, are you going to flunk? Say it now--yes or
no."

That made me mad.

"Tom Dorgan," I said, "I'll bet your own teeth chattered the
first time you went in for a thing like this. I'm all right.
You'll squeal before I do."

"That's more like. Here's the gate. It's locked. Come, Nance."

With a good, strong swing he boosted me over, handed me the bag
of tools and sprang over himself. . . . He looked kind o'
handsome and fine, my Tom, as he lit square and light on his feet
beside me. And because he did, I put my arm in his and gave it a
squeeze.

Oh, Mag, it was so funny, going through Latimer's garden! There
was the garden table where I had sat reading and thinking he took
me for Miss Omar. There was the bench where that beast Moriway
sat sneering at me. The wheeled chair was gone. And it was so
late everything looked asleep. But something was left behind that
made me think I heard Latimer's slow, silken voice, and made me
feel cheap--turned inside out like an empty pocket--a dirty,
ragged pocket with a seam in it.

"You'll stay here, Nancy, and watch," Tom whispered. "You'll
whistle once if a cop comes inside the gate, but not before he's
inside the gate. Don't whistle too soon--mind that--nor too loud.
I'll hear ye all right. And I'll whistle just once if--anything