“Not on the Sabbath. Too many fellows do that around here.”
Fred’s parents had lingered to exchange a few words with some friends, and as they finally came down the walk he told them he was going for a short stroll with Roy.
“Be home to dinner, surely,” urged his mother.
He promised, and set off with Hooker, turning down the street. At the square, in the center of the village, they turned on to Lake Street and proceeded eastward, passing the new bank, a small, square building of brick and stone.
“That makes a great improvement on this street,” commented Fred.
“Oh, yes,” nodded Hooker; “but it would have looked better had they been able to purchase that little old hut and the land belonging to Aaron Quinn. That shanty, squatting right there almost under the rear eaves of the bank, is a regular eyesore, but I understand old Quinn refused to sell at any price.”
The building in question was a tiny old house that stood some distance from the street, partly hidden by two large oak trees and a straggling growth of lilac bushes. It was sorely in need of repairs and paint, and some of the broken windows had been patched or stuffed with rags.
Aaron Quinn, the owner of this disreputable little shanty, was a surly, blustering old sea captain, who had given up his calling on account of age and rheumatism and returned to spend the latter days of his life at his birthplace in Oakdale. His irascible temper and general crabbedness made him more or less unpopular among the villagers, and especially so with the boys of the town, who seldom lost an opportunity to jibe or annoy him.
As the two friends were passing beneath the spreading limbs of one of the oaks, something struck Roy on the shoulder and bounded to the sidewalk. It was an acorn, and Hooker might have thought that it had fallen in a natural manner from the tree had it not been followed almost immediately by another, which clipped the edge of his cap-visor.
“Hey!” he exclaimed, looking up. “Who’s throwing them? Oh, I see; it’s that confounded monkey.”