“What on earth are you doing here?” he demanded, snatching the hose from Dicky’s reluctant fingers, and turning off the water.
“Washing down the walls,” replied Dicky truthfully.
“Incidentally you’ve given yourself a good soaking,” said Roger, looking at the thoroughly drenched little figure before him. “Here, slip into this coat, and I hope I haven’t got to carry you home the whole way, you big, heavy creature.”
“I think I’d be warmer if I trotted myself,” suggested Dicky, a little apprehensive of what might happen to him in the way of a bear hug, in his brother’s strong arms.
“I guess you’re right,” said Roger. “We’ll have to run like deer, for it’s almost time for the car to come for us. This puts an end to your going into town, I suppose you understand, young man.”
Dicky had not thought of losing his other joy while he was realizing his first delight, and he puckered his face for a howl, but before the sound could come out, Roger said: “You brought it on to yourself, so don’t yell. This is the natural result of what you’ve been doing. You can’t expect ten people to wait for you to be thoroughly dried and got ready to go into town, can you?”
Dicky was an uncommonly reasonable child and he swallowed his sobs as he shook his head. There was no farther conversation, for both boys were running as fast as Roger’s legs could set the pace. Dicky’s strides were assisted by his brother, who seized his arm and helped him over the ground with giant steps.
Mrs. Morton’s view of the situation seemed to be painfully like Roger’s, and Dicky found himself put into the care of Mary and an unnaturally rough bath towel, his only part in the expedition that had promised such happiness to him, being the sight of his relatives climbing into his grandfather’s automobile and dashing off toward Glen Point, where they were to pick up Miss Graham and the Hancocks.
When the party reached New York they made up their minds that they might as well approach the Museum containing many beautiful objects by the prettiest way possible, so at 59th Street the car swept into Central Park. As they entered, Miss Graham called their attention to the golden statue of General Sherman, made by the famous sculptor, Saint-Gaudens. As they neared the Museum, she pointed out Cleopatra’s needle, an Egyptian shaft covered with hieroglyphics.
“The poor old stone has had a hard time in this climate,” said Roger. “It has scaled off terribly, hasn’t it?”