See my tennis racket, Jack.
Isn't it prime!"--darting over to pull it out of a corner.
"I should say it was," declared Jack, fingering it lovingly as Joel thrust
it into his hand with a, "Do you play?"
"A little," said Jack. He did not think it necessary to add that he was the
champion player of the Common Street team on the dingy little open space
given up to goats and tenement-house children.
"That's good!" exclaimed Joel, with shining eyes, and clapping him on the
back; "we'll have a bout together sometime. And here are my boxing-gloves."
He seized them and struck an attitude. "Come on, Jack," he cried in huge
delight.
So Jack did come on, and when he emerged, why, there were the fencing foils
to try; and when this was all over, and both boys sat down, flushed and
panting, why, Jack's best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and his oiled hair
didn't look so badly, to Joel's way of thinking.
David now ran in.
"It's time to get ready to go to Mrs. Sterling's supper," he said, with a
nod to Jack.
"So it is," cried Joel, beginning to run here and there for his other shoes
and clothes.
Jack turned away with a feeling that it wasn't good manners to be looking
on, and glanced out of the window.
"Come over and look at our butterflies," cried Joel, running over to a
cabinet against the wall, "they're just beauties.
Pages:
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303