The boy whistled briskly, “My country, 'tis of thee,” and though his knowledge of the air failed him when he finished the second line, he was not disheartened, but began at the beginning again, continuing repeatedly after this fashion to offset monotony by patriotism. He whistled loudly; he walked with ostentatious intent to be at some heavy affair in the distance; his ears were red. He looked neither to the right nor to the left.
That is, he looked neither to the right nor to the left until he had passed the Baxters' fence. But when he had gone as far as the upper corner of the fence beyond, he turned his head and looked back, without any expression—except that of a whistler—at Jane. And thus, still whistling “My country, 'tis of thee,” and with blank pink face over his shoulder, he proceeded until he was out of sight.
“Who was that boy?” the new neighbor then inquired.
“It's Freddie,” said Jane, placidly. “He's in our Sunday-school. He's in love of me.”
“JANE!”
Again the outraged and ink-stained countenance glared down from the window.
“What you want?” Jane asked.
“What you MEAN talking about such things?” William demanded. “In all my life I never heard anything as disgusting! Shame on you!”
The little girl from across the street looked upward thoughtfully. “He's mad,” she remarked, and, regardless of Jane's previous information, “It IS your papa, isn't it?” she insisted.
“No!” said Jane, testily. “I told you five times it's my brother Willie.”