“See!” piped Doodles joyously. “Seems’s if ther’ was more red than ther’ was yesterday. It’s lovely!” he breathed. “It looks like—heaven!”
“Heaven!” sniffed Blue. “I should think ’t ’u’d look more like h—the other place!”
“Blue Stickney!” His mother’s voice was horrified.
“Well, I should!” the boy insisted defiantly. “Him sitt’n’ here day in ’n’ day out, roastin’, and never goin’ any nearer the park ’n’ that! It’s he’—awful!—that’s what it is—I don’t care if I do say it!”
The door slammed its appreciation of Blue’s honesty, and Mrs. Stickney gazed across at Doodles with a sigh.
Plainly the small boy had paid no attention to his brother’s words. The heavenly morsel of landscape was absorbing all his thoughts.
But after dinner, when the city flags hung limp on their staffs, and the sun flamed fiercely round the corner of the kitchen window, even the bit of beauty in the distant park looked glaringly hot. Doodles dropped back on his pillows, and shut his eyes.
“Whew, if this isn’t a roaster!” fumed Blue, jerking off his blouse. “That thing don’t go on again till it’s cooler!”
“You’ll have to wear it when you deliver your papers,” said Doodles mildly, opening his eyes.
“I won’t,” declared Blue savagely. “I’m not goin’ to swelter for fashion! Mother’s got the best of it this afternoon in the shop. They’ll git a breeze there if ther’ is any. Don’t you want to lie down and take a nap?”