"Very well, dear. Close the door after you. It's downright chilly again to-night."
"Yes'm." Fudge slipped his cap to the back of his round head and opened the side door. There he hesitated. Of course, he was going to the library, although he didn't especially want to, for it was many blocks out of his way, but he meant to make his visit to that place as short as possible in order to call for Perry and reach the theater early enough not to miss a single feature of the evening's program. And he was practically telling a lie. Fudge didn't like that. He felt decidedly uneasy as he stood with the door knob in hand. The trouble was that his mother didn't look kindly on moving pictures. She didn't consider them harmful, but she did think them a waste of time, and was firmly convinced that once a month was quite often enough for Fudge to indulge his passion for that form of entertainment. Fudge had a severe struggle out there in the hallway, and I like to think that he would have eventually decided to make known his principal destination had not Mrs. Shaw unfortunately interrupted his cogitations.
"William, have you gone?"
"No'm."
"Well, don't hold the door open, please. I feel a draft on my feet."
51
