She looked at my two small friends as she spoke, but I am afraid she included me in her remark.
This incident served to show Jimmy the mettle of my seven year old neighbor. It was by way of a delicate tribute to Peter that he was asked, on the following day, to be one of six competitors in a foot race which, starting from his own gate, was to end at the cross roads some five hundred yards distant. Just before the start he came over and exhibited himself to me, clad in vest and drawers, with sneakers on his little feet and a huge red 5 decorating his visibly inflated chest.
Solemnly, I shook his hand and wished him well. Then I lay back in my hammock to await the result of the race.
Half an hour later, Peter, very red in the face, very hot, and manfully trying to suppress his tears, appeared through the gap in the hedge, with Jimmy in close attendance.
"He won!" said Peter, disconsolately, pointing a dusty forefinger at his companion.
"But Pete came in second," hastily put in the victor, standing at the foot of my swinging couch.
"I—I wanted to win," announced Peter, the uncomforted. Then, seeing my eyes fixed in affection and condolence on him, he gave one loud frantic gulp and came into my arms.
"But, Peter darling," I, said to the one small red ear I could see, "you must remember that you are only seven if you are big for your age, and all the other boys are much older, aren't they, Jimmy?" I asked this with my most appealing look over Peter's bowed head toward the Simpson scion.
"Yes, Miss Mavis, ma'am," corroborated Jimmie loudly. "An' Pete, he done awful good to come in second. Why, Josh Watkins was in the race too, and he's eleven an' a terrible swift runner."
"You see?" I said to the Ear.