Instead, he basked in the sunshine, twiddling his bare toes
ecstatically, and let the huge bulk of him sink more contentedly into
the well-reinforced armchair which creaked under his slightest motion.
Scattergood glanced across the dusty square to the post office. The mail
was in, and possibly there were letters there for him. He thought it
very likely, and he wanted to see them--but movement was repulsive to
his bulging body. He sighed and closed his eyes. A shrill whistle
attempting the national anthem, with certain liberties of variation,
caused him to open them again, and he saw, passing him, a small boy,
apparently without an object in life.
"A-hum!" said Scattergood.
The boy stopped and looked inquiringly.
"If I knew," said Scattergood to his bare feet, "where there was a boy
that could find his way across to the post office and back without
gittin' sunstroke or stone bruise, I dunno but I'd give him a penny to
fetch my mail."
"It's worth a nickel," said the boy.
"Give you two cents," said Scattergood.
"Nickel or nothin'," said the boy.
Scattergood scrutinized the boy a moment, then surrendered.
"Bargain," said he, but as the boy hustled across the square
Scattergood heaved himself out of his chair and padded inside the store.
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