o last Saturday, after I shuts up the Studio, I scoots out to my place
in Primrose Park.

Well, I puts in the afternoon with Dennis Whaley, who's head gardener
and farm superintendent, and everything else a three-acre plot will
stand for. Then, about supper time, as I'm just settlin' myself on the
front porch with my heels on the stoop rail, wonderin' how folks can
manage to live all the time where nothin' ever happens, I hears a
chug-chuggin', and up the drive rolls a cute little one-seater bubble,
with nobody aboard but a Boston terrier and a boy.

"Chee!" thinks I, "they'll be givin' them gasolene carts to babies
next. Wonder what fetches the kid in here?"

Maybe he was a big ten or a small twelve; anyway, he wa'n't more. He's
one of these fine haired, light complected youngsters, that a few years
ago would have had yellow Fauntleroy curls, and been rigged out in a
lace collar and a black velvet suit, and had a nurse to lead him around
by the hand. But the new crop of young Astergould Thickwads is bein'
trained on different lines. This kid was a good sample. His tow
coloured hair is just long enough to tousle nice, and he's bare headed
at that. Then he's got on corduroy knickers, a khaki jacket, black
leather leggin's, and gauntlet gloves, and he looks almost as healthy
as if he was poor.

"Hello, youngster!" says I. "Did you lose the shuffer overboard?"

"Beg pardon," says he; "but I drive my own machine."

"Oh!" says I. "I might have known by the costume."

By this time he's standin' up with his hand to his ear, squintin' out
through the trees to the main road, like he was listenin' for
somethin'. In a second he hears one of them big six-cylinder cars go
hummin' past, and it seems to be what he was waitin' for.

"Goin' to stop, are you?" says I.

"Thank you," says he, "I will stay a little while, if you don't mind,"
and he proceeds to shut off the gasolene and climb out. The dog
follows him.

"Givin' some one the slip?" says I.

"Oh, no," says he real prompt. "I--I've been in a race, that's all."

"Ye-e-es?" says I. "Had a start, didn't you?"

"A little," says he.

With that he sits down on the steps, snuggles the terrier up alongside
of him, and begins to look me and the place over careful, without
sayin' any more. Course, that ain't the way boys usually act, unless
they've got stage fright, and this one didn't seem at all shy. As near
as I could guess, he was thinkin' hard, so I le