Oor, accustomed to discomfort. "Don't you feel cold at all?" persisted
Marche kindly. "No, sir." "I suppose you are hardened to this sort of
weather?" "Yes, sir." By the light of a flaming match, Marche glanced
sideways at him as he drew his pipe into a glow once more, and for an
instant the boy's gray eyes flickered toward his in the flaring light.
Then darkness masked them both again. "Are you Mr. Herold's son?"
inquired the young man. "Yes, sir," almost sullenly. "How old are you?"
"Eleven." "You're a big boy, all right. I have never seen your father.
He is at the clubhouse, no doubt." "Yes, sir," scarcely audible. "And
you and he live there all alone, I suppose?" "Yes, sir." A moment later
the boy added jerkily, "And my sister," as though truth had given him a
sudden nudge. "Oh, you have a sister, too?" "Yes, sir." "That makes it
very jolly for you, I fancy," said Marche pleasantly. There was no reply
to the indirect question. His pipe had gone out again, and he knocked
the ashes from it and pocketed it. For a while they drove on in silence,
then Marche peered impatiently through the darkness, right and left, in
an effort to see; and gave it up. "You must know this road pretty well
to be able to keep it," he said. "As for me, I can't see anything except
a dirty little gray star up aloft." "The horse knows the road." "I'm
glad of that. Have you any idea how near we are to the house?
