“Yep,” replied the bigger boy of the group.
“And only the roof left? Crickey! What have you chaps been doing? Sliding down it?” For he had observed as he came down from the car two of the smaller boys doing just that.
“It’s great fun,” said the bigger boy, grinning, perhaps at the memory of what had happened to Sammy Pinkney’s trousers the previous afternoon. “Want to try?”
Neale grinned more broadly, and gave the shingled roof another glance. “I bet you don’t slide down it like those little fellows I just saw doing it. How do their pants stand it?”
The boys giggled at that.
“Say!” the bigger one said, “there was a kid came along yesterday that didn’t get on to that—till afterward.”
“Oh, ho!” chuckled Neale. “He wore ’em right through, did he?”
“Yes, he did. And then he was sore. Said his mother would give him fits.”
“Where does he live? Around here?” asked Neale carelessly.
“I never saw him before,” admitted the bigger boy. “He was a good fellow just the same. You looking for him?” he asked with sudden suspicion.