“I’d like to be a Judge in them times.”
“You mean, you’d like to have been a Judge in those times,” corrected Aunt Priscilla.
“Have been,” mumbled the boy.
Aunt Priscilla was delighted; at last she had awakened the pride of ancestry in that little soul.
“Now tell me, dear, what would you have done if you had been a Judge in Salem.”
“I’d burn you.”
4
One day Floyd found out there was a mystery on the top floor of the Steele house; it was Martin’s fourteenth birthday. He invited Floyd to ice-cream and cake. “Julie Gonzola was coming.” There was plenty to eat, but Floyd lost his appetite looking at little Julie sitting up on a high chair with all the best things piled before her. She let Martin pile them, but she didn’t touch them—she couldn’t, in a strange house.
Toward evening the maid came to take her home. The two boys stood at the window as she went past enveloped in white furs, her little feet stepping out firmly, her head erect.
Martin’s eyes snapped.