out at the dreamy blue sky, and heard the play-cries and the street sounds, and hunted for cool spots on his pillow, and whined and cried a great deal, and devoutly wished that after all he had run off with the circus and been a pink lemonade man.
••••••••
It was a hot and cloudless day in June. The tree-tops stirred lazily, the bees droned murmurously about Chamboro's empty gardens, the shadows stood flat and black on the almost deserted streets of the little town.
Lonely could stand it no longer. He securely tied Shivers, so as not to be followed, and then, making a wide detour, noiselessly and circumspectly entered the Sampson garden by way of the well-known hole in the back fence.
Under the shadow of the pear-tree he whistled three times. Receiving no answer to this summons, he gave vent to a muffled owl-hoot, pregnant, stirring, unmistakable.
A moment later a languid head was thrust out of a carefully curtained window, and Lionel Clarence was whistling down at him, weakly but gleefully. He wa3 in his white
