A slight figure appeared, likewise upon a fence, beyond two neighbouring
yards.
"Yay, Penrod!" called comrade Sam Williams.
"Yay!" returned Penrod, mechanically.
"I caught Billy Blue Hill!" shouted Sam, describing retribution in a
manner perfectly clear to his friend. "You were mighty lucky to get out
of it."
"I know that!"
"You wouldn't of, if it hadn't been for Marjorie."
"Well, don't I know that?" Penrod shouted, with heat.
"Well, so long!" called Sam, dropping from his fence; and the friendly
voice came then, more faintly, "Many happy returns of the day, Penrod!"
And now, a plaintive little whine sounded from below Penrod's feet, and,
looking down, he saw that Duke, his wistful, old, scraggly dog sat in
the grass, gazing seekingly up at him.
The last shaft of sunshine of that day fell graciously and like a
blessing upon the boy sitting on the fence. Years afterward, a quiet
sunset would recall to him sometimes the gentle evening of his twelfth
birthday, and bring him the picture of his boy self, sitting in rosy
light upon the fence, gazing pensively down upon his wistful, scraggly,
little old dog, Duke. But something else, surpassing, he would remember
of that hour, for, in the side street, close by, a pink skirt flickered
from behind a shade tree to the shelter of the fence, there was a gleam
of amber curls, and Penrod started, as something like a tiny white wing
fluttered by his head, and there came to his ears the sound of a light
laugh and of light footsteps departing, the laughter tremulous, the
footsteps fleet.
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