"I wish I had some relatives," said Billy wistfully. "There are only daddy and I. Don’t you like relatives, some one who belongs to you?" "Father used to say that relatives were an affliction, and he supposed a man had to have afflictions to make a man of him, but if he had had any influence with Providence, he would have preferred not to be a man." "Who was your father?" asked Billy. "A minister," answered the Watermelon, clasping his hands behind his head and staring up at the interlaced boughs overhead. "A country minister. He used to say that there was just one thing in this world more pitiful than a country minister, and that was his wife." "Why," cried Billy, "the papers said he used to be a policeman." "I thought you didn’t read the papers?" "I don’t, just the Sunday supplements," said Billy frankly, as one to whom his intellectual development is of minor importance. The Watermelon wheeled over with a laugh and caught her hand. "Hang dad!" he exclaimed. "Where’d you get your name?" He drew himself up on the log beside her, as near as he dared. He wanted to put his arm around the slim waist, but decided that he had better not. She jerked her hand away and laughed, her small nose wrinkled, the dimple coming and going. "Don’t you like it?" "Sure. It’s classy, all right. But what is the long of it?" "Wilhelmina. Dad’s is William, just like yours. We’re all Billies." "Mine ain’t William," sneered the Watermelon, edging a bit nearer. Her eyes opened and she stared in frank surprise. "But the papers say—" "The papers lie faster than I can," said the Watermelon, "and that’s fairly speedy." He had only an hour and he did not care what she thought between him and the papers. "Billy is a darned cute little name, and a cute little girl," he added. "I guess you can lie faster than the papers," said she. "I can when I want to," admitted the Watermelon. "Father used to say that a man that couldn’t lie was a fool and one who wouldn’t, a bigger." "I should think if your father was a minister that he wouldn’t lie," said Billy severely. "I know. But he used to say he had to in a business way. To tell a man that there was a bigger hell than this earth was a lie on the face of it." "Why?" "Because there couldn’t be, he used to say." "Don’t you believe in Heaven?" demanded Billy. "Sure," said the Watermelon. "What do you think it’s like?" asked Billy. "A watermelon patch," said the Watermelon promptly. "Just when all the fruit is ripe. Don’t you think so?" "I think it’s an ice-cream counter," said Billy. "Naw. At an ice-cream counter you would have to have money." "Not in Heaven, you wouldn’t," said Billy. "It would all be free and you could have as much as you wanted." "Who would wait on you? Any one could pick a watermelon, but everybody can’t mix an ice-cream soda." "The bad people would. That would be hell, you see, always serving it to others and never allowed to taste any."