A second helping of ice cream.
When she reappeared, he winked heartily at his amazed companions and settled to the second helping of ice cream.
At last the party came to an end, as all such joyous occasions must, and he found himself on the sidewalk, looking up once more at the now darkened parlor. Far up the street came the hooting and jeering of a gang—possibly his own—although the voices seemed older and strange, and the gate of the house next the apartment building had disappeared, leaving empty hinges as mute testimony that some band of witches had done their work thoroughly and well.
In response to his prolonged ring and joyous kicks on the home door, Mrs. Fletcher let him in. "Don't pound so hard, son," she cautioned. "We're not deaf."
"Might a' thought it was some Halloween gang if I didn't," he defended himself as he threw his hat on the nearest chair.
"Have a good time?" she queried.
"Did I?" The earnestness of his voice left little doubt as to his sentiments. "Did I? You just bet I did!"
The family always slept late on Sunday morning, but at that, John, worn out by the excitement of the preceding evening, stirred drowsily when his father appeared in the doorway.
"Come on, John; time to get up."
"Yes, dad," gazing at him with lackluster eyes. As Mr. Fletcher left, he turned his face promptly toward the wall and dropped off to sleep again.
"John!" It was his mother's voice this time.
"Uhu."
"Why didn't you get up when your father called you?"
"Aw, let me alone. I don't want any breakfast. Honest, I don't."
"Nonsense! You can take a nap in the afternoon if you want. Come on. I won't go down stairs until I see you up."
He might as well, then. Mrs. Fletcher was pretty well versed in his tricks, thanks to long years of experience, and there was little chance of further delay. So John sat up and dangled his legs over the side of the bed, while he rubbed his sleep-laden eyes with his fists.
"Need a wet washrag?"
No. He was wide awake now. He listened to her steps on the stairs, and to the opening of the front door as his father brought in the morning paper. Then he fingered one stocking abstractedly.
Half an hour later, prompted by Mrs. Fletcher's remonstrances, her husband came up and found the boy staring with unseeing eyes far over the railroad tracks into the park. In his hand was the same stocking which he had picked up so many minutes before.
At last he appeared in the dining-room, to find that his father and mother had eaten their meal. His hair was half brushed, and his face and neck untouched by cleansing water (hadn't they been soaped the night before?), but he set to work on the nearly cold breakfast with a will. He removed his empty grain saucer from the bread and butter plate and looked up suddenly.
"Mother," he said irresolutely.
"Yes, son?"
"Say, Mother—how old does a fellow have to be to get married, anyway?"
His father chortled with merriment. John flushed an embarrassed red. His mother restrained a smile as she answered:
"About twenty-one, dear, and lots of people wait until they're older. Why?"
"Nothing. Does it cost very much?"
"Cost much?" Mr. Fletcher dropped the Sunday paper to the floor and looked at his son and heir attentively. "Why, I should say it does. You ought to have at least a thousand dollars saved before you even think of marrying."
"John," cautioned Mrs. Fletcher reprovingly. "Don't torment the child."
"Let's see," went on her husband, unheeding. "You're ten now. If you want to marry by the time you're twenty-one, that means you'll have to earn about a hundred dollars a year from now on. Better begin right away."
"Raise my allowance, will you, dad?" came the unexpected retort. "I'm only getting a quarter a week now, and Sid DuPree's father gives him a whole dollar."
"Young man," was the grave reply. "If you want to support a family, you'll have to do it of your own accord. You and your mother keep me busy as it is."
"Give me a quarter, then," the boy persisted. "That's all I want. Please!"
His father dug into his pockets and brought out the desired coin. "The nest-egg for the second generation of Fletchers," he grinned. "Catch, son."
A few minutes later John disappeared in the direction of a little stationery and toy shop which lay some blocks to the north. But not a word could Mr. Fletcher draw from him as to the aim of the expedition. He returned with a mysterious package which he took up to his room and then sauntered out to Silvey's house.
A little later his mother, who had gone upstairs to dress herself for dinner, came down to the dining-room where John, senior, still sat reading.
"John," she said.
"Yes, dear?" with a hasty glance away from the news sheet.
"Do you know," her smile was tender, "there's a big, china pig bank up on that boy's bureau? I believe he's taken your words in earnest!"