This incident served to show Jimmy the mettle of my seven year old neighbor. It was by way of a delicate tribute to Peter that he was asked, on the following day, to be one of six competitors in a foot race which, starting from his own gate, was to end at the cross roads some five hundred yards distant. Just before the start he came over and exhibited himself to me, clad in vest and drawers, with sneakers on his little feet and a huge red 5 decorating his visibly inflated chest. Solemnly, I shook his hand and wished him well. Then I lay back in my hammock to await the result of the race. Half an hour later, Peter, very red in the face, very hot, and manfully trying to suppress his tears, appeared through the gap in the hedge, with Jimmy in close attendance. "He won!" said Peter, disconsolately, pointing a dusty forefinger at his companion. "But Pete came in second," hastily put in the victor, standing at the foot of my swinging couch. "I--I wanted to win," announced Peter, the uncomforted. Then, seeing my eyes fixed in affection and condolence on him, he gave one loud frantic gulp and came into my arms. "But, Peter darling," I, said to the one small red ear I could see, "you must remember that you are only seven if you _are_ big for your age, and all the other boys are much older, aren't they, Jimmy?" I asked this with my most appealing look over Peter's bowed head toward the Simpson scion. "Yes, Miss Mavis, ma'am," corroborated Jimmie loudly. "An' Pete, he done awful good to come in second. Why, Josh Watkins was in the race too, and he's eleven an' a terrible swift runner." "You see?" I said to the Ear. Peter raised his head and thrust his grimy fists into his eyes. "It's all right," he said bravely, "only...." "Never mind, dear," I begged, "next time you'll come in first, won't he, Jimmy?" "Sure!" agreed Jimmy heartily. And Peter, content with the confidence of his vanquisher, presently made off with him, saying earnestly, "But Jimmy, what makes you go so fast?" Two days later, swinging lazily between my trees and reading _The Lyric Hour_ to Wiggles, who listened attentively and with cocked, inquiring ears, I was horrified to see Mrs. Goodrich hurtle herself through the hedge, followed by Loretta, her black cook, both of them wringing their hands--Loretta, I swear, almost as white as her mistress--and both demanding, "_Have_ you seen Peter?" "Why, no," I answered, "not today. Why?" Sarah, her sixth sense telling her that something was wrong, appeared simultaneously at the foot of my hammock. "Oh, Mavis," said Peter's pretty mother, "he's lost! He's been gone two hours, and we've been everywhere!" Loretta, her apron over her kinky head, rocked to and fro. I looked at Sarah. "Have you seen him?" I asked, my heart standing very still. "No, Miss Mavis." Except for the sound of Loretta's noisy weeping, we were quite quiet. "_The Black Pond!_" said Mrs. Goodrich, in a whisper. "Don't!" said Sarah and I together.