“She ought to take your picture in that crazy sweater,” Westy said.
“That will cost her fifty cents and the war tax,” said Ed. “That sweater saved your life, young Scratch-on-the-arm, full-blooded New Jersey Boy Scout. That’s a good name, hey, Warde?”
“Yes, and you ought to be called Red Sweater or Bent Safety-pin,” laughed Warde.
“And you ought to be called Warde’s Cake,” said Ed. “You seem to have the plate all to yourself.”
“I can’t stop eating while people are watching me,” said Warde.
“Let them look,” said Ed, “it’s no disgrace to eat. Pass the pickles will you, Scratch-on-the-arm? When are we going to start seeing the Park, anyway?”
“To-morrow morning,” said Westy.
“We’re going to see Cleopatra’s Terrace,” said Warde.
“I don’t want to go where she is,” said Ed. “I had her in the fourth grade; she and I don’t speak.”
“There are a lot of terraces,” said Westy.