From the Embankment, he turned into an old-fashioned street on the slope of Beacon Hill, and began to climb the heights. His great-great-grandfather had lived on that street, in Wendell’s present home, in the early days when fashion first built up the Hill. His great grandfather and his grandfather and his father, in turn, had lived there through many changes, as fickle fashion turned to newer avenues. As Wendell paused in front of his house,—a stern, square front, with a door whose solidity and heavy brass knocker and sentinel sidelights gave the impression that it had been put there to keep people out instead of to let them in,—he was hailed by a friend across the street.
Sammy Davis’ father had a name that ended in idsky when he lived in Russia; but after he came to America and moved into one floor of the decadent mansion next to Wendell’s, the family had decided to give an American twist to the name. So Davis it had become.
Sammy Davis crossed to Wendell.
“Where yer been?”
“Library.”
“Get a book?”
“Yep.”
“Lessee it.”
Sammy reached for the two books, grabbed them. Wendell grabbed in turn. Perfectly willing he was, of course, to show Sammy the books, but who doesn’t resent having things grabbed? Sammy ran across the street; Wendell followed, chased, ducked when Sammy dodged. There was an upright stone post at the inner edge of the sidewalk, barring vehicles from entering a narrow blind court that opened opposite Wendell’s house. Sammy dodged behind this, then out again, ran around in a circle and back to the post to dodge once more, then ran out again, then back to the post. The chase was prolonged and I suppose that they encircled that post a dozen times.
When Wendell at length secured both books, he vaulted up and sat on top of the post, which was roughly hewn and small on top and not so very comfortable. Still, you could stick on.