“What kind of work, Larry?” she asked.
“Cuttin’ wood for Whisperin’.”
“You should call him Mr. Taylor, Larry.”
“I did—once. Then he said we was well enough acquainted to call each other by our first names. What was all this about Mr. Hartley bein’ missin’?”
“Nobody seems to know, Larry.”
“Gee, I hope he’s all right. Me and him are waitin’ for the big wind to come along, so we can fly a kite. When yore ankle gets better you can help us.”
“All right, Larry. Perhaps your father will help, too.”
Larry thought a while.
“Mebby. It’s funny to think of him bein’ my father. Do you like him?”
“Why do you ask that, Larry?”