THE minutes ticked into an hour and still no one passed. The sun was
already behind the house and a little breeze was rustling the tall
grass and bushes below us. I shall never smell syringas again without
thinking of those hours on that tin roof. For it was nearly two full
hours before we saw anyone!
Then at last we heard, not the hum of a motor for which we had been
listening, but the slow rattle of wheels. It was a farm wagon, coming
from the direction of Old Beecham, and it was drawn by a team of horses
and driven by a boy in overalls and a blue shirt. His head was bare and
we could hear him singing lustily to himself as he drove.
At our first frantic shout, however, he turned his head and gazed up at
the house. We both stood up and began to wave wildly.
“Whoa-o.” We could hear the boy’s voice as he brought the horses to a
stop. The sound brought cheer to our hearts. Another minute and he was
vaulting over the stone wall and coming toward us. His brown face only
a shade lighter than the shock of hair above it was expressionless.
“Anything the matter?” he drawled as he came within earshot.
“Well, you don’t think we’re sitting on this roof for pleasure, do
you?” Eve giggled.
“I haven’t thought anything about it,” retorted the boy. “But from the
yell you let out just now, I judged somebody was being murdered.”
“We had to make you hear,” Eve explained sweetly. “We’ve been sitting
here for two hours!”
“Why don’t you try sitting somewhere else then if you’re tired of it?”
“Better view of the scenery from here,” she told him. “By the way, you
don’t happen to have a ladder in that wagon of yours, do you?”
“What do you think I am—the hook and ladder company?”
“Well, I just thought I’d ask.”