pitch. That Walter should see him driving in the doctor's rubber-tyred buggy was gratifying in the extreme. From the tail of his eye he tried to detect Walter's envy. Then they reached the big bare house, and it was time to thank Dr. Wilcove and say good-bye. Aunt Verona had rehearsed him in this final speech, and according to instructions he added, "Won't you come in, Dr. Wilcove, and have a cup of tea with us?" The doctor declined, patted him on the back in a way which made Paul suddenly wish he had a father, and drove off.
Paul lingered at the gate. He was still suffused in his sense of contentment, and his heart was beating strangely. He felt sure that Walter was walking faster now than when they had passed him. In a few seconds Walter would reach the gate. Paul pushed it, but as usual it stuck. The rusty hinges were as neglected as the garden. He gave a harder shove and dropped his bag of marbles. If he had been in a hurry he could have picked them up before Walter arrived. As it was, the shooter remained on the ground. Walter handed it to him with a curious, cajoling light in his brown eyes. The sun, shining on his eyes, gave them a resemblance to the shooter he was holding.
"Is it an agate?" he ventured, as Paul put it into the bag with the others.
Paul nodded.
"Get it in Bridgetown?"
"Yes," said Paul, and his sense of history in the making almost made him choke over the word—the first he had addressed to Walter in six months.
"Got any more?" Walter went on, swinging a jug which he was carrying to Mrs. Barker's for yeast.
"Only glassies," Paul replied.
"Let me see 'em?"
Walter praised the selection, and tried the green top, but the ground was too muddy for a successful spin.
