"Yes'm."
"I saw her go out about half an hour ago."
So this time that he had had to give had been wasted, after all. A tide of anger rose in him and the hot fever of it dried and choked his throat. He righted the bicycle, kicked a toe-clip into place, and rode back to the store. A clock in a jeweler's window told him that it was five minutes past four. His father was out on the sidewalk scanning: the street.
"You'll have to go back," he said. "Mrs. Busher just 'phoned. She said she had stepped out for a moment."
Bert looked straight ahead with a hard stare.
"Can't be helped," his father said. "I'm sorry; it's one of the things that thoughtless persons inflict upon business men. Hurry and you may be in time for your game. You needn't come back here. Go right to the field."
So the boy rode again to Fairmount Avenue. He rang the bell, and then rang again, holding his finger on the button. Footsteps sounded within the house. Even his inexperienced ears, reading the sound, could tell that it indicated outraged dignity. The door was thrown open and he was confronted by Mrs. Busher.
"Must you tear down my house," she demanded, "because I do not drop everything and run when you ring? What do you mean by such conduct?"
