Page:Jay Little - Maybe—Tomorrow.pdf/318



GLENN ROGERS SAT BACK IN THE leather seat of the cream convertible and pushed his legs way out in front of him. From time to time he gazed at Gaylord with increasing admiration, not unmixed with awe. He had never heard of a boy who had never been fishing, and the consciousness that other things might exceed it in fun and opportunity, opened new vistas to him. Moreover, the thought that Mr. Le Claire had never taken his son fishing puzzled him. Still, neither had his father taken him. He had always gone alone or with friends. He wondered at Gaylord's likes and dislikes and hoped his suggestion would not end in disaster. After all, he didn't know too much about Gaylord. He was certainly not well informed about his hobbies. But now that the question had arisen, he dismissed it easily, with the certainty everything would work out. Only Gaylord was so advantageously placed that he could choose or pick where he would go or what he would do. Would he have chosen this himself?

"Don't expect too much, Gay."

Gaylord, now well along on a strange road, said he didn't. That anything would be better than staying home or going to a movie. "The woods hasn't been cleared out," Rogers went on. "Guess you'd rather have gone some place else."

"Glenn Rogers stop worrying about me. I'm thrilled to death about going. Why today, I'd rather be out in the woods fishing than any place I know." He spoke reassuringly, easing Rogers' fear.

As they rode along, Rogers pointed out familiar landmarks; Old man Turner's water well, where, he said, when they were pumping for the rice fields, he had once gone swimming; in that big house 308