“And this is New York, and so—”
“Mighty good thing Dad sent you to school, Laurie. Chicago’s in Illinois, you ignoramus.”
“Is it? Well, who cares?” Laurence Stenman Turner had also deposited the bag he was carrying on the brick sidewalk and was applying a lavender-bordered handkerchief to a moist brow. “Just the same, that’s a jail.”
“If that’s a jail, I’ll eat my hat,” declared the other,
“It’s not a school, though, and that’s flat,” was the prompt retort.
“Huh, that was an easy one!” Edward Anderson Turner retreated to a flat-topped stone wall bordering a well-shaded lawn and seated himself with a sigh of relief. His companion followed suit. Behind them, grass and trees and flower beds made a pleasant setting for a square gray house, half hidden from the street. Overhead a horse-chestnut tree spread low branches across the sidewalk. The quiet village street ascended gently, curving as it went, empty in both directions. Somewhere on a neighboring thoroughfare a scissors-grinder was punctuating the silence with the musical ding—dang—dong of bells. In a near-by tree a locust was making his shrill clatter. Across the way, the subject of contention, stood a large red-brick edifice, stone trimmed, many windowed, costly and unlovely. The boys viewed it silently. Then their glances fell to the two black suitcases on the curbing.
“How far did that hombre say it was to the school?” asked Ned Turner, after a minute of silence.
“Three quarters of a mile.”
“How far have we walked already?”
“Mile and a half.”