"O Fudge! Fudge Shaw!"
Fudge raised his head and peered through the young leaves of the apple-tree in which he was perched, along the side yard to where, leaning over the fence, was a lad of about Fudge's age. The visitor alternately directed his gaze toward the tree and the house, for it was Sunday afternoon and Perry Hull was doubtful of the propriety of hailing his friend in week-day manner.
"Hello, Perry, come on in!" called Fudge. And thereupon he detached the "Ode to Spring" from the tablet, hastily folded it and put it in his pocket. When Perry climbed the ladder which led to the platform some eight feet above the ground Fudge was in the act of closing a Latin book with a tired air.
"What are you doing?" asked Perry. He was a nice-looking chap of fifteen, with steady dark-brown eyes, hair a shade or two lighter and a capable and alert countenance. He swung himself lithely over the rail instead of crawling under, as was Fudge's custom, and seated himself on the narrow bench beyond the books.
"Sort of studying," answered Fudge, ostentatiously shoving the books further away and scowling distastefully at them. "Where have you been?"
"Just moseying around. Peach of a day, isn't it?"
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