No greetings were exchanged. Would one say hello to the sun, or to the moon or even to some familiar star?
“How did you make out?” asked Gloria, eagerly.
“It wasn’t!” Gloria’s voice boomed. “Well, if it wasn’t, then I don’t ever want to see another bicycle spill.”
“No. I hate spills anyhow. They make you gulp and you can’t see anything but dust.”
“I should say I did. I thought it would never stop bumping over the stones until it went straight into the brook. But, Tom, honest, you ought to be more careful.”
“Just the same, I never ride over that hill with a clothes basket full of pond lilies and an arm full of papers.”
“But you do ride over there with trees full of blossoms—”
“Oh, well. That was only when we had to get the school decorated—”
“And this was only when I had a big order—”
They laughed, gave in and changed the subject.
“What if your mother finds out?” persisted Gloria.
“A lot of folks saw you. They were down waiting for the launch.”
“Tom Whitely! You almost rolled over on the railroad track and Mrs. Trivett nearly had a heart spell.”
“But she talks more than half of the town.”
“Folks can’t help it. She’s so—pesky.” Gloria dropped a spray of golden rod.
“But you know, Tom, others listen to her, and then—then. Just suppose someone tells your mother you rolled down that hill when the Flyer was whistling—”
“Tom Whitely, that’s no way to talk.” Gloria’s nose seemed to sniff her hat brim, and her black eyes flashed at the willows they were passing.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it.” Tom’s voice was caressing now. His eyes blinked and he changed his big basket to the other arm in spite of Gloria’s blue gingham dress and her own armful of sweet-flag roots being on that side. There was plenty of room now, however, for she had edged off toward the stone wall.
The road turned at the creek—Tom would go one way and Gloria the other, but before they separated they had made up the momentary difference. Just as it began it ended. Neither boy nor girl was subject to any nonsensical apologies or explanations over such silly little trifles.
“If I were you, Tom, just the same, I’d tell my mother I had a spill and that your bike is broken. Then—”
“Oh, yes, I know, Gloria. That’s easy enough to say. But you don’t know my mother.”