"Aw-w-w, shucks! Can't you get out of it?" His friend fumbled in one of his bulging pockets. "Look!"
The laborer at household tasks stared with sudden interest. "Ji-miny, cukes! Where'd you get 'em?"
"'Long the railroad tracks. Vines are loaded. Nice and ripe, too. Watch."
He hurled the greeny, spiny oval against the window ledge where it burst with the peculiar "plop," which only a wild cucumber of a certain stage of juicy plumpness can make.
"The fellows are going to have a big fight," Silvey continued—"Perry Alford and Sid and the Harrison kids and all the rest of the gang. Ask your mother can you leave the work until afternoon. Tease her hard."
Cucumbers ripe so early? That was fine! But could he evade the Saturday tasks. He would try.
As he descended the stairs, the elation left his face and his step grew heavy and lifeless. He was framing a plea for freedom and his manner must fit the occasion. Had you seen him, you might have thought that his best bamboo fishing pole had been broken, or that the key to his bookcase was in maternal possession as punishment for some misdeed. All boys are splendid professional mourners anyway, and John was by no means an exception to the rule.
He halted in the dingy coat closet to listen. Through the closed kitchen door came his mother's voice uplifted in song.
Nita, Oh, Ju-a-a-nita,
Ala-a-s that we must part!
He sighed deeply. Bitter experience had taught that never was moment so unpropitious for errands like the present as when that cheerful dirge filled the air. But the thought of the waiting Silvey nerved him. He turned the doorknob and coughed hesitantly. His mother looked up from the pan of apples on her lap and smiled. She knew that lagging step and drooping mouth of old.