I had been too preoccupied to see the man, and anyway he had just stepped from behind a shrub at the end of a terrace. With a glance I saw that he was clad in a green shirt and brick-colored slacks, was about my age or a little younger, and seemed to be assuming a supercilious attitude.
He said, “He wants to play tag.”
I said, “I don’t.”
He said, “If you offend him he’ll bite you. Start past him on the grass and dodge when he goes to touch you. Dodge three times and then let him tag you, and say ‘Mister’ in an admiring voice. That’s all. His name is Mister.”
“I could turn around and go home.”
“I wouldn’t try that. He would resent it.”
“I could sock him one.”
“You might. I doubt it. If you hurt him and my aunt ever catches you... I suppose you’re Archie Goodwin? I’m Larry Huddleston. I didn’t send those letters and don’t know who did or who might. My aunt will be down later, she’s upstairs arguing with Brother Daniel. I can’t invite you in until you get past Mister.”
“Does everyone who comes here have to play tag with this damn overgrown orangutan?”
“He’s not an orangutan; he’s a chimpanzee. He doesn’t often play with strangers. It means he likes you.”