The Highgrader | Page 2

our room steward and when I came back she was gone," the annoyed
governess was explaining.
Discovery was imminent. The victim prepared herself for the worst.

"I don't care," she protested to her protector. "It's ever so nicer to stay
up, an' if it wasn't runnin' away it would be somefing else."
At this bit of philosophy the lounger chuckled, rose swiftly, and
intercepted the dragon.
"When do I get that walk you promised me, Miss Lupton? What's the
matter with right now?"
The governess was surprised, since it was the first she had heard of any
walk. Flattered she was, but still faithful to duty.
"I'm looking for Moya. She knows she must always go to her room
after tea and stay there. The naughty child ran away."
"She's all right. I saw her snuggled under a rug with Mrs. Curtis not
two minutes ago. Just a turn or two in this lovely night."
Drawn by the magnet of his manhood, Moya slipped into the chair
beside the eight-year-old.
"I'd kick her darned shins if she spanked me," boasted he of the eight
years.
Moya admired his courage tremendously. Her dark eyes followed the
retreating figure of her governess. "I'm 'fraid."
"Hm! Bet I wouldn't be. Course, you're only a girl."
His companion pleaded guilty with a sigh and slipped her hand into his
beneath the steamer rug.
"It's howwid to be a dirl," she confided.
"Bet I wouldn't be one."
"You talk so funny."
"Don't either. I'm a Namerican. Tha's how we all talk."

"I'm Irish. Mith Lupton says 'at's why I'm so naughty," the sinner
confessed complacently.
Confidences were exchanged. Moya explained that she was a norphan
and had nobody but a man called Guardy, and he was not her very own.
She lived in Sussex and had a Shetland pony. Mith Lupton was horrid
and was always smacking her. When she said her prayers she always
said in soft to herself, "But pleathe, God, don't bless Mith Lupton."
They were taking a sea voyage for Moya's health, and she had been
seasick just the teentiest weentiest bit. Jack on his part could proudly
affirm that he had not missed a meal. He lived in Colorado on a ranch
with his father, who had just taken him to England and Ireland to visit
his folks. He didn't like England one little bit, and he had told his
cousin Ned so and they had had a fight. As he was proceeding to tell
details Miss Lupton returned from her stroll.
She brought Moya to her feet with a jerk. "My goodness! Who will you
pick up next? Now walk along to your room, missie."
"Yes, Mith Lupton."
"Haven't I told you not to talk to strangers?"
"He isn't stwanger. He's Jack," announced Moya stanchly.
"I'll teach you to run away as soon as my back is turned. You should
have been in bed an hour ago."
"I tan't unbutton myself."
"A likely reason. Move along, now."
Having been remiss in her duty, Miss Lupton was salving her
conscience by being extra severe now. She hurried her charge away.
Suddenly Moya stopped. "Pleathe, my han'erchif."
"Have you lost it? Where is it?"

"I had it in the chair."
"Then run back and get it."
Moya's thin white legs flashed along the deck. Like a small hurricane
she descended upon the boy. Her arms went around his neck and for an
instant he was smothered in her embrace, dark ringlets flying about his
fair head.
"Dood-night, Jack."
A kiss fell helter-skelter on his cheek and she was gone, tugging a little
handkerchief from her pocket as she ran.
The boy did not see her again. Before she was up he and his father left
the boat at Quebec. Jack wondered whether she had been smacked,
after all. Once or twice during the day he thought of her, but the
excitement of new sights effaced from his mind the first romance his
life had known.
But for nearly a week Moya added a codicil silently to her prayer. "And,
God, pleathe bless Jack."
CHAPTER I
THE CAMPERS
Inside the cabin a man was baking biscuits and singing joyously, "It's a
Long, Long Way to Tipperary." Outside, another whistled softly to
himself while he arranged his fishing tackle. From his book he had
selected three flies and was attaching them to the leader. Nearest the
rod he put a royal coachman, next to it a blue quill, and at the end a
ginger quill.
The cook, having put his biscuits in the oven, filled the doorway. He
was a big, strong-set man, with a face of leather. Rolled-up sleeves
showed knotted brown arms white to the wrists with flour. His eyes
were hard and steady, but from the corners of them innumerable little

wrinkles fell away