While the car hummed up the avenue the two stood close together, Tommy's face earnest as he argued and reassured.
The car stopped near the garage. A tall, clean-shaved man in palm beach clothes and panama hat came toward them. "Hello, old man," he said and stooped down and kissed one boy; then straightening up: "Who's this you've got with you?"
"Joe," said Tommy simply.
He saw the keen look in the gray eyes, the smile that caused the fine wrinkles to gather about their corners way up there under the panama hat.
"Well, Joe—where did you drop from?"
Then Aunt Cindy called the master of Freedom Hill aside, and Tommy saw the old woman talking earnestly up into his face. His father nodded, then came toward them, smiling.
"All right, boys," he said. "Come up on the porch where it's cool, and tell me all about it."
But Joe would not tell. He drew away and looked at the man with that scrappy grin. Silence, secretiveness where grown people were, had been beaten into his small brain. Out behind the house, the conference finished, Tommy reassured his guest again and again, sometimes laughing, sometimes very earnest.
"Oh, he won't hurt you, Joe!"