“Yes, until about noon. I’ll play you to-morrow, if you like.”
“To-morrow’s Sunday, you idiot.”
“Well, we’ll try it some other time. I hope we have something good for supper. I’m starved!”
Rodney’s first Sunday at school passed quietly and uneventfully. There was church in the morning for everyone, the boys walking to and from their chosen place of worship with one of the submasters. Tad confided to Rodney that there were more Episcopalians than any other denomination in school because the pews in the Episcopal church had higher backs and you didn’t have to sit up all the time. In spite of that attraction, however, Rodney joined the group of fellows who, in charge of Mr. Cooper, attended service at the little white Methodist church down by the river. It was a long way down there and a longer way back, and when Rodney gained the cottage once more he was quite ready for the Sunday dinner, which at Mrs. Westcott’s was a very elaborate meal. Rodney topped off with two dishes of ice cream and two slices of cocoanut layer cake and then went upstairs and tried to write a letter home. But it was a wonderful, warm September day and the outdoors called him. So, after a brief struggle, he took his tablet and fountain pen downstairs and found a shady spot under a pear tree at the side of the house. Before he had written more than “Dear Mother and Dad,” however, he was joined by Tom Trainor and Pete Greenough. A few minutes later Tad added himself to the group, and Rodney laid his letter aside. For an hour and more they lay on their backs on the grass and talked, discussing idly and lazily all the hundred and one subjects of interest to boys, from the incidents of church going to the college football situation, including the catching of black bass and the best way to get money from parents.
“I used to write that I wanted to get my hair cut,” confided Tad reminiscently, staring up into the branches. “That did pretty well when I was a youngster——”
“What are you now?” asked Pete Greenough slightingly.
“Shut up! Finally, though, mother wrote me that she had been keeping a record and that I’d had exactly fifteen haircuts in four months, and she was afraid my hair might get discouraged and then I’d be bald. So I had to think up something else.”
“What?” asked Tom Trainor interestedly.
“Subscriptions to school societies and things. At Christmas vacation father asked me how many societies I belonged to, and I forgot and said one. That spoiled that.”
“You know you were lying,” said Pete severely.