CHAPTER IV
IN WHICH A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED
The following morning was clear and sun-shiny. Silvey, his trousers' pockets strangely distorted, sprinted down the street and halted on the cement walk in front of the Fletcher house.
"Oh, John-e-e-e! Oh, John-e-e-e!"
John appeared at an upper window in answer to the ear-piercing call. He carried a dustrag in one hand, and an expression of extreme discontent was on his freckled face.
"What you want?"
"Come on out."
"Can't." Disgruntled pessimism rang in his tones.
"Why?"
"Got to tidy my room and dust the bookcase and hang up my clothes in the closet and cut the front grass. Mother says so."