Bewildered and a little frightened, he pushed his head against her like a stubborn calf and was silent.
He felt a little chastened by the time they arrived home, but then things blew up again. Grammy pulled the trigger. Smiling, she hugged him and said, "Cheer up, Pete—tomorrow's the picnic on Indian Hill."
They were using Indian Hill to cancel out his last day with the Hester! He gritted his teeth with a scrawtch that raised goose pimples even on himself. "I won't go! It doesn't have to be tomorrow!"
Grammy's face began to winter and his mother's face grew harder as she said, very firmly, "It's tomorrow, and you certainly are coming."
"I won't!" he exploded, and ran out to the barn.
He lay in the hay in the tallest now, feeling like a miserable sick solitary cat. After awhile he dialed his radio, 29 on the eight orb, and Murph came right in.
"How's it goin', Murph?"
"Oh—it's you. You in trouble?"
"Nah—but I can't see you today. I wondered if you could take me up tomorrow? I mean, if there's room, that is?"