When Dickie’s mother put him in my charge for the summer she said: “Keep him out of as much mischief as you can.” This seemed unnecessary, for, really, Dickie was a well-mannered, good-looking young fellow, with broad shoulders, a clear skin and a clean heart. I said as much.
“Oh, you old bachelors!” laughed Dickie’s mother, and sailed away to spend her second season of widowhood abroad.
Dickie and I were just taking a look at the country surrounding our summer headquarters when we found Rosie. Balancing herself on a gatepost and eating cherries was Rosie. It must be admitted that she did both of these things with a certain grace, also that the picture she made had its charm. For she was probably sixteen, with all that the age implies.
Of course, one could not expect Dickie to be at all impressed. Certainly I did not.
“Girls!” Here followed an ominous inbreathing, ending in an explosive “Huh!” This was Dickie’s expressed attitude toward the sex. For Dickie was nineteen, which is the scornful age, you know. What are girls when a fellow is going to be a soph. in the fall, with the prospect of playing quarterback on the ’varsity eleven?
As we neared the girl on the gatepost Dickie gave her a careless glance. She certainly deserved better. There was the sifting sunshine in her hair and there were her white, rounded arms reaching up to pull down a fruit-laden branch. Perhaps the girl on the gatepost felt the slight of Dickie’s unappreciative glance, perhaps not. At any rate, she was unstirred.
“Want one?” she asked, saucily dangling a cherry at us.
Red as the cherry went Dickie’s face, and he marched stiffly past without reply. Once we were out of earshot, he remarked, with deep disgust: “What a freshy!”
“Yes, but rather pretty,” said I.