"You're a liar, a damnable liar. You've led me into the middle of this--place that you don't know any more of than I do." His eyes, ranging about in helpless desperation, saw, some distance beyond, a rise of dry ground. The sight appeared to divert him, and he stood looking at it. He had the appearance of having forgotten Tito, and the child, uneasy at this sudden stillness as he was ready to be at anything the tramp did, said with timid urgence: "Say, come on. I got to get home for supper or I'll get licked." For answer the man moved in an opposite direction, to where the stream widened. He saw there was deep water between him and the dry place, but he wanted to get there, rest, smoke, unroll his blanket and sleep. Tito's uneasiness increased. "You're goin' the wrong way," he pleaded. "You can't get round there, it's all water." Suddenly the man turned on him savagely. His brooding eyes widened and their look, a threatening glare, made the boy's heart quail. "Get out," he shouted, "get out, I'm done with you. You're a fakir." Tito retreated, crushing the rushes under his naked feet, his face extremely fearful. "But I was takin' you. I sure was--" "Get out. You don't know anything about it. You're a liar." "I do. I was takin' you straight--and you promised me a quarter." "To hell with you and your quarter. Didn't you hear me say get out?" The thought of the quarter gave Tito a desperate courage; his voice rose in a protesting wail: "But I done half already--you're halfway acrost. You'd oughter give me a dime. I've done more than a dime's worth." The tramp, with a smothered ejaculation, bent and picked up a bit of iron, relic of some sportsman's passage. Tito saw the raised hand and ducked, hearing the missile hurtle over his head and plop into the water behind him. It frightened him, but not so much as the man's face. Like a small, terrified animal he bent and fled. The breaths came quick from his laboring breast, and as he ran, his head low, the rushes swaying together over his wake, sobs burst from him, not alone for fear, but for his lost quarter. The sun was the dazzling core of a golden glow when he crept on to the dry ground, mud-soaked, tear-streaked, his wooden boat still in his hand. His terror was over and he padded home in deep thought, inventing a lie. For if his parents knew of his wanderings he would be beaten and sent to bed without supper. The tramp picked his way round to the stream that separated him from the desired ground, slipped out of his clothes and, putting them in the basket, plunged in the current. On the opposite bank he stood up, a lean, shining shape, the sunlight gilding his wet body, till it looked like a statue of brass. The bath refreshed him; he would eat some fruit he had in his basket, take a smoke, and rest there for the night.