Large groups of young boys all too young to smoke; all smoking. Little groups of girls looking in the shop windows. Two girls especially, looking in the windows for lack of something better to do. Not exactly discontented, not consciously bored. Just looking. Just walking.
Among the cars is one that goes a little more slowly even than the rest. It is a middle-aged Dodge touring car with two boys in the front seat, very much on the lookout. They pass the two little girls and call out experimentally cheerful and more or less expectant of rebuff. One of the girls looks oblivious and yet slightly more scornful, but the other smiles a little. On the chance of success, the driver of the car goes around the block and passes them again. As he disappears around the corner for the second time, the scornful girl suddenly relaxes.
“If they come back again, let’s,” she says.
“Sure,” says the other, indulgently. “They look all right.”
A third time you call to them, and this time the girls stop walking and stand waiting as the car comes to a halt. The boy who is not driving jumps out and opens the back door. Ruthie, the scornful girl, steps in while Rosie gets into the front seat, and the car speeds away. It has not taken a moment.
“Well, where to?” you call from the back seat.
“I don’t care,” answers Bill. “What do you say?” he adds, turning to Rosie. “Got any favorite drives?”
“No,” says Rosie, “I don’t know much about the roads. What do you say, Ruthie?”
“Ruthie. It’s a nice name,” you say, and put your arm around the owner of it. She does not cuddle down, but sits up more swiftly than before.
“Why,” she says, with a surprising decision, “the Jamestown road is pretty good as far as the fence with the vine on it. When you get that far you better turn back.”