noted merriment. With an animal-like instinct common to his kind, he had guessed and understood everything. They were going fishing!
He wondered, in a foolish little flutter of hope, if they would call companionably in as they passed, just hollering off-hand over the fence for him to get a move on, and come along if he wanted to!
Then the new boy remembered the events of the day before, and the hope died down. Certain disturbing signs had already been driven home to him. He was an outlander, an intruder, with his right still unestablished. And besides all that, things were not going to come out right, bitterly maintained Lonely O'Malley. Nothing good ever came of getting at a place on Friday—there was trouble ahead, of some kind. And twice on the way, too, he had seen a black cat, plain as day, on his path.
For Lonely O'Malley was indeed a new boy in Chamboro. From the sandy little neighboring hills, the afternoon before, he had caught a disconsolate sight of the sleepy old town, basking like a gray kitten in the sun,
