THE FOG
CHAPTER I
THIS FRECKLED WORLD
I
I straddled, precariously balanced, atop a seven-foot fence marking the northern boundary of the little Vermont school yard. As this was the opening morning for the September term, I had left home painfully dressed in the full armor of country-village scholarship. Already the puckering-string of my blouse was broken and my new dollar-and-a-quarter boots were hot upon my feet. No matter! Noisily on the philosophical old boards I whacked a barrel stave. I had aspirations toward making the lower world of pinafored humanity remark nervously of my valor and horrible propensities for breaking an arm. But I did not address that pinafored world directly. No such aplomb is possessed by a youngster of eight.
A new boy edged his way into the yard twenty minutes before the bell rang and moved along my fence. He concentrated upon tallying its knotholes. I noted that he was a stranger and immediately took his measure.
“’Lo!” I greeted him.
“’Lo, yourself!” he responded.
“What’s yer name?” I demanded, piqued.
“Name, name, Puddin’ Tame; ask me again and I’ll tell yer the same!”
“Aw, don’t get fresh!” I advised him. “I could ‘do’ you with one hand tied behind me—if I wanted.”