“No,” said Old Hundred, “that's Benny.”
Then we looked at each other and laughed.
“You poor old idiot,” said Old Hundred.
“You doddering imbecile,” said I, “come on up to Sandy.”
Somehow, it wasn't far to Sandy. It used to be miles. We passed by Myrtie Swett's house on the way. It stood back from the turnpike just as ever, with its ample doorway, its great shadowing elms, its air of haughty well-being. Myrtie, besides a prize speller, was something of a social queen. She was very beautiful and she affected ennui.
“Oh, dear, bread and beer,
If I was home I shouldn't be here!”
she used to say at parties, with a tired air that was the secret envy of the other little girls, who were unable to conceal their pleasure at being “here.” However, Myrtie never went home, we noticed. Rather did she take a leading part in every game of Drop-the-handkerchief, Post Office, or Copenhagen—tinglingly thrilling games, with unknown possibilities of a sentimental nature.
“If I thought she still lived in the old place, I'd go up and tell her I had a letter for her,” said Old Hundred.
“She'd probably give you a stamp,” I replied.
“Not unless she's changed!” he grinned.