Distanced, his competitors paused, and jealously, but half admiringly, watched.
“Bo-oys! Bo-oys!”
The gentle soprano voice with the reproachful, shocked inflection made you drop tin cups, the batch of you, and hastily look.
’Twas the minister’s wife. In power she stood above the superintendent, even, and only slightly below the minister himself.
“Why, why! You mustn’t do that!” she objected, bearing down.
Mustn’t you? Well, all right; there was lots else to do, and, soaked without and within, reeking of lemonade, you withdrew to do it.
“Gee—I drunk fifteen!” boasted Snoopie, patting his stomach.
He proved to be high man. Yourself had to your score only the modest aggregate of ten.
Behind, at the scene of the late contest, arose sounds of lamentation and dismay over the state of the tubs.
Stately, mute, impenetrable, with baffling rag-carpet covering their tops, in the shade stand the two ice-cream freezers, and on all sides of them the feet of you and your cronies, and of the little girls as well, have well-nigh worn bare the woodland sod. But now, torn away by less exalted emotions, you and Hen revolve around Mrs. Schmidt’s tablecloth spread on the ground and weighted down with dishes.