"By George, look behind us! I fancy we are going to have a storm." Four heads turned as if governed by one brain; four pairs of eyes, of varied color and character, swept the wind-blown
wilderness of tender green, and gazed questioningly at the high-piled thunderheads above. A small boy, with an abundance of yellow curls and white collar, almost precipitated himself into the
prim lap of a lady on the rear seat. "Auntie, will God have fireworks? Say, auntie, will He? Can I say prayers widout kneelin’ down’? Uncle Redmon’ crowds so. I want to pray for fireworks,
auntie. Can I?" "Do sit down, Dorman. You’ll fall under the wheel, and then auntie would not have any dear little boy. Dorman, do you hear me? Redmond, do take that child down! How I wish Parks
were here. I shall have nervous prostration within a fortnight." Sir Redmond Hayes plucked at the white collar, and the small boy retired between two masculine forms of no mean proportions. His
voice, however, rose higher.
