“I’m not so stuck on it; I’m out in my car most of the time.”
“Is that your car out there?”
“That’s him; small but lively; can’t hold him in.”
“I bet you can’t tell what kind of tires a car has by the tracks,” Pee-wee said, wedging his observation into the talk. “Scout’s can.”
“I should bother my young life about tracks,” laughed Braggen. “I’ll tell you about that pair,” he continued, speaking to Hope, to Pee-wee’s utter exclusion. “We’re not saying much about it up at the house, but I don’t suppose it makes any difference what I tell down in this graveyard.”
Hope laughed.
“They’re Hydome boys and they’re cracker-jack tennis players. So you see we’re booked to walk away with the tennis match, too. Say, if the town hall wasn’t nailed down, Snailsdale House would walk away with that, too. We’ve got a Russian pianist coming up, too, long hair and all that sort of thing; you’ve got to pronounce his name in sections—”
“I know a feller that’s got a name with five syllables,” Pee-wee interrupted, in a kind of defiance.
“There’s a rich old guy coming, too,” said Braggen. “We’ll be whooping things up in a couple of weeks or so. Kind of quiet down here, huh? Something like being dead.”
“How do you know, because you were never dead?” Pee-wee shouted, at which Hope and Braggen both laughed.