private boarding-house and pulled out the white china knob of a bell that
gave no evidence of having sounded within, and left him uncertain to ring
again.

A cast-iron deer, with lichen growing along its antlers, stood poised for
instant flight in Mrs. Gallup's front yard.

While Mr. Evans waited he regarded its cast-iron flanks, but not seeingly.
His rather the expression of one who stares into the future and smiles at
what he sees.

Erie Street, shaded by a double row of showy chestnuts, lay in summer calm.
A garden hose with a patent attachment spun spray over an adjoining
lawn and sent up a greeny smell. Out from under the striped awning of
Hassebrock's Ice Cream Parlor, cat-a-corner, Percival Pauncefort Sheridan,
in rubber-heeled canvas shoes and white trousers, cuffed high, emerged
and turned down Huron Street, making frequent forays into a bulging rear
pocket.

Miss Lydia Chipley, vice-president of the Busy Bee Sewing and Civic Club,
cool, starchy and unhatted, clicked past on slim, trim heels, all radiated
by the reflection from a pink parasol, gay embroidery bag dangling.

"Hello, Lyd!"

"Hello, Pen!"

"What's your hurry?"

"It's my middle name."