He explained that he had to be up at school at first bell. A geography notebook had been left in his desk, and entries must be made in it before the class began. He was gathering his scattered belongings together in the hall when the maternal voice called him back to the kitchen. "Yes, Mother?" with his head in the doorway. "Will you ever learn to shut a drawer when you're through with it?" He shoved it back with a sulky bang. "Where's my hat?" "Did you look in the front hall?" "'Tain't on the floor by the big chair. That's where I most always leave it." "How about the closet hat rack?" A moment later, a surprised shout told that the lost had been found. The front door slammed noisily and he was off to school. The dishes were washed and dried, the plates and saucers stacked on the pantry shelves, the cups hung neatly on the appointed hooks in the cupboard, and the silver put away in the sideboard drawer. Then Mrs. Fletcher turned her attention to the tidying of the house. She made innumerable circles and criss-crosses with the carpet sweeper over the parlor rug, and was dusting the big rocker by the bay window when a chance glance up the street revealed two small figures playing far at one end of the strip of macadam. Her son, without doubt, was one of them. No one else wore a cap tilted back at quite so ridiculous an angle. The other stocky figure looked and acted like Bill Silvey. Why weren't they at school? Hookey? No, for truants never allowed themselves within sight of home and easy detection. And there was a certain brazen righteousness about their actions. At the big, green house, Silvey challenged John to a game of tag. A lamppost nearer, they ceased the mad, dodging chase and engaged in earnest conversation. A hundred yards from the Fletcher house, footsteps lagged to an astonishing degree and an air of lassitude overcame them that was inexplicable in view of recent activities. The boys mounted the front steps wearily. John pressed the bell as if the act consumed the last atom of strength in his arm. His mother swung back the door anxiously. "What on earth's the matter?" "School doctor sent me home," her son explained. "Think's I've got the measles." "Nonsense! Let me take a look at you." His eyes were reddened to an alarming degree, but there seemed little else the matter. "He did," John insisted. "Told me to stay home today to see if they got worse. Silvey and I are going fishing." "Fishing! And coming down with the measles?" He protested volubly. His head felt heavy and kind of funny, but he didn't think that lazying around on the pier would be harmful. The sunshine might do him good. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Fletcher a second time and with increased emphasis. She turned to Silvey. "You can go home, Bill. John can't come out. He's going to stay in bed until he gets better." John trudged wearily up the interminable stairs to his little tan-walled room.