"How do you know that? Did you see him?" "Yes," said Pat stoutly. That made the question difficult to argue. "All right," continued Peter. "Call him God if you want to. Anyhow, when it's thunder he's just saying 'Booh' at you and if you get scared you haven't got any sense. Remember that's what thunder is. Just somebody named God saying 'Booh.'" "No, it isn't." "Well, you tell me then." "When it's thunder," said Pat, pointing up the street in the direction of Central Park, "it's a big giant in the trees." The child paused. "A blind giant," he added. Peter stared at him and wondered whether the phrase and figure were his own or whether he had picked them up from Kate. Later Peter took occasion to ask her and she denied it. "God's ankle," she admitted but only after revision. "You know, Mr. Neale, it's the way he has of getting things twisted in his little head. You understand now it was 'God's anger' I was a telling him." "Oh, I knew that all right, Kate. I knew he made up the ankle part of it. But you're sure you didn't tell him anything about thunder and a giant in the trees--a blind giant." "No, sir." Peter got to thinking things over and began to remember what Vonnie had said concerning the future of Pat. He was worried. This idolatry of the Red Bat who sang on the phonograph he didn't like. After this it would have to be somebody else who knocked David down. Sandow Mertes maybe. Then there was this blind giant in the trees. He didn't mind Pat's growing up to be a poet. That would fit into the column nicely enough, but not wild poetry. The thing had to be kept in bounds or there wasn't any way to syndicate it. Still the next column of "Looking Them Over" which Peter wrote contained a little poem somewhat outside his usual manner. It was called, "The Big Blind Giant." Three days later the syndicate manager on the Bulletin called up Peter. "We've got six telegrams already about that poem of yours," he said. "The one about the big blind giant running around and hitting his head against the trees." "What's the matter with it?" asked Peter aggressively. "Nothing at all, Peter, they all say it's great. All but that sporting editor of the Des Moines Register--you know him, Caleb Powers?" "No, I don't know him. What's he say?" "He just gives the name of the poem and then he says in his telegram, 'Don't tell me the answer, I want to guess.'" "Five out of six is plenty," said Peter. "And say, Bill, where do you suppose I got the idea from?" "Where?" "From my kid--Peter Neale, 2nd. He isn't four yet, but you see I've got him working for the Bulletin already." CHAPTER XVII Pat furnished copy for Peter again within a month. Kate came in from the Park all breathless with an account of a fight between the child and his friend and playmate Bobby, last name not given.