We can take our pick.
What do you say ?" "Whatever you say," said Don.
"Well," said Brian, "to tell you the truth, I have the keys." The quarry, he fancied as he climbed the path to the cluster of shacks, would solve his problem for him and when the time was ripe he would have his say.
The time ripened with frost in the morning and a harvest moon at night; and Brian had failed to have his say.

A letter came from John Whitaker definite in detail and a shade impatient.

Why was he loitering when God's green world of spring had turned to autumn?
Was he still stale and thinking wrong?
Brian set his lips to his task and spoke.
"Don," he said one night when the dishes were washed, the shack swept and the lamp lighted, "I've been thinking a lot about you and what you're going to do this winter." The boy, who had been sparring with a kitten that had strayed into the shack the day before, rose abruptly.
"You say you won't write to your sister until you've made good ?" "It isn't just that," stammered Donald, changing color.

"I--I don't dare.

She'd beg me to come back--" Brian nodded.
"Yes," he said.