"Why, Herbie, what is the matter?"
"I hate it."
"You hate what?"
"My name."
"Herbie! What has happened to you? You were named after your uncle, and he was governor. . . ."
"Why wasn't I named after somebody who had a decent name?" he demanded recklessly.
The good humor left Mrs. Quinby's face. "Herbie Quinby, I don't know what in the world has been coming over you of late. You had better attend to the garden until your father comes home. We'll see what he has to say about this."
Gone was the prospect of lemonade and cake. Even while he was taking the gardening tools from the cellar he heard Bill Harrison whistling at the front gate, but gave no sign that the sound reached his ears. Through the hours that were left of the afternoon he hoed among the vegetables, working doggedly, not because the labor held a charm, but because the exercise gave an outlet to his tumult of emotions. The sun went down behind Camel-back Hill. The shadows of the growing crops lengthened toward the east. And then a step sounded behind him, and a longer, broader shadow stood beside his own.
"What's this Mother's been telling me, Herbie?"
Bitterness welled into his voice as he answered
