he shook the handle at Ellen Culpepper and beckoned her with a finger,
and they slipped out into the moonlight together. She had hold of the
handle of the bucket with him, and they pulled and hauled and laughed
as boy and girl will laugh so long as the world turns round. The
street was deserted, and only the bar of light that fell across the
sidewalk from Schnitzler's saloon indicated the presence of human
beings in the little low buildings that pent in the highway. The boy
and the girl stood at the pump, and the boy stuck a foot in the horse
trough. He made a wet silhouette of it on the stone beneath him, and
reached for the handle of the pump. Then he said, "I got somepin I
won't tell."

"Three little niggers in a peanut shell," replied the girl.

"All right, Miss Cuteness. All right for you; I was going to tell you
somepin, but I won't now." He gave the pump-handle a pull. It was limp
and did not respond with water. "Ellen--" the boy repeated as he
worked the handle, "I got somepin to tell you. Honest I have."

"I don't care, Mr. Smarty," the girl replied; she made a motion as if
to walk away, but did not. The boy noticed it and said, "Yes,
sir--it's somepin you'd like to know." The girl did not turn round.
The boy, who had been working with the wheezy pump, was holding the
handle up, and water was gurgling down the well. And before she could
answer he said, "Say, Ellen--don't be mad; honest I got somepin."

"Who's it about?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Me."