Crawford was not yet a man; he was in the transition stage, a boy fondly hoping that other people might think him a man.

So he sat still until it was too late to rise, and then wished he had risen in the first place.
"My goodness!" exclaimed the fidgety Miss Keith, "why don't you look at them, Crawford?
What are you waiting for ?" Mary-'Gusta, the box of marshmallows in her hand, regarded the boy on the nail keg.

His eyes met hers and in them was a look of such utter misery that the girl relented.

Her feeling of satisfied resentment changed to one almost of pity.

She had been made to feel ridiculous herself at various times in her short life and she remembered the sensation.