ight have learned where he was and be
lurking around the corner ready to pounce upon him. The room was empty
and he took a long breath. He would run away if it weren't for Mother
'Larkey and for little Kathleen who always cried when he even said
anything about running away. He heard the screen door slam shut after a
time and Nora's gentle footsteps coming up the stairway. He turned his
back to the door.

"Jerry," pleaded Nora's coaxing voice, "come on out and play. Danny
didn't mean anything."

Jerry did not answer. He did not even look around.

"Danny wants you to play with us," continued Nora. "Won't you?"

"No," Jerry replied at length.

"Why won't you?"

"He didn't play fair."

"I'll count over again, Jerry, so's I'll be the--" The voice stopped and
then continued chokily, "--the audience."

Jerry knew what it cost her to say that, but he hardened his heart. "I
don't want to play no more," he said.

"Please do, Jerry. I'm sorry I didn't play fair, Jerry."

"I won't," pouted Jerry. "He said I could be the el'funt some of the
time."

"Mebbe he'll let you after while, after he's tired of playin' it,"
suggested Nora, without any great fervor of conviction in her voice.
"I'll ask him to."

With that Nora left the room. He wondered if she could persuade Danny to
let him be the elephant part of the time. He might play then, if Danny
coaxed him to.

He heard the screen slam after Nora and waited, listening for it to go
slam-bang much louder. That would mean that Danny was coming to let him
play elephant. Danny always let the door go shut slam-bang. He waited a
long time and then he heard the shouting of the children. They were
playing circus without him! Danny wouldn't let him be the elephant. Very
well, if they didn't want him around and wouldn't let him play with
them, he would run away. Danny would be sorry then. Perhaps he would be
killed on a railway track or something and Danny would cry over his dead
body, he'd be so sorry he didn't let him be the elephant.

That thought comforted him and he began gathering up the things he
wanted to take with him. There was the fur cap that Mother 'Larkey had
made for him out of an old muff of hers, the winter before. He couldn't
leave that behind, nor yet the overcoat which she had made for him out
of an old coat of her husband's just after Mr. Mullarkey had died. The
other things he didn't care much about. Yes, after all, he would take
the ragged, fuzzy cloth do