Adjacent to the church was a long, ramshackle shed, reminiscent of a time when people sheltered their horses and carriages during service. Near this was a rail where horses had once been tied. In days gone by many were the sermons punctuated by the restive stamping of these horses from near and far about the countryside.
“I bet you I can walk on that,” said Hervey. “I bet you I can go the whole length of it on one foot. Do you say I can’t?” After a stumble or two, he proved that he could. “Come on, let’s sit on the rail; I don’t have to get in till ten.” Nine-thirty was the limit set, but Hervey had made it ten and Mr. Walton had not taken official notice.
“Me, I can stay out all night,” said Hinkey. “You’re lucky. I bet when you went to Coney Island you stayed that late.”
“They were lucky if they saw me back the next day,” said Hinkey.
“Did you go on the boat? I bet you wouldn’t stand on the rail of that.”
“I bet I did.”
“Not when it was going?”
“Sure I did.”
“Oh bimbo. Let’s see you walk this rail—on one foot.”
“I wouldn’t be bothered,” said Hinkey.