too fast for his body, so that his head looked like a great, flaming knob stuck upon a spindle.
"Can you imagine Herbie as a pretty baby?" Mrs. Quinby said with amusement.
"Ah, let's take a walk," Herbie said sulkily.
It was not that his mother's talk bothered him. He had all of a fourteen-year-old boy's contempt for looks. But the name "Herbie" had begun to rankle. It sometimes sent a shadow to his eyes and a droop to his mouth. More than once, of late, he had found himself picturing his companions addressing him as "Red." That would have had a manly, real-fellow sound. But Herbie. . . . He kicked a pebble from his path and trudged down the walk.
They walked through the warm spring sunshine, turning corners aimlessly, until their wandering steps carried them to Washington Avenue, the main street of the town. A burst of laughter drew their attention to a group of boys clustered halfway up the block. Bill's eyes lighted.
"Something's up," he said with satisfaction, "and we're just in time to see it."
They pushed forward, reached the fringe of the crowd and craned their necks.
A great, tawny man, his beard and head a wild tangle of hair, sat in a chair that was tilted back against the wall of a building. A crutch lay across his lap, and a stump—all that was left of his left leg—stood out stiff and straight.
