“Not a scrap,” answered the boy, “I can’t draw for sour apples.”
“American!” ejaculated the artist, noticing the turn of the expression. “H’m.”
A trolley-car whizzed by.
“Why aren’t you on that rattle-bang tram?” he demanded.
“Didn’t like the idea,” the boy replied simply. “Too much like going to church on rollerskates.”
“H’m,” was the artist’s only reply, but the boy could see that he was pleased.
“Are you disappointed?” was the artist’s next query.
“In Egypt?”
“No. In it!”
He pointed to the pyramid at the end of the road before them, its outlines shining clearer as the sun sank, lengthening the shadows of the trees before them.