“What?”

“What you goin’ to do when it’s winter, out in a hammock with water sprinkled on top o’ you all day?  I bet you——­”

“I’d stay right there,” Sam declared, with strong conviction, blinking as he looked out through the open doors at the dazzling lawn and trees, trembling in the heat.  “They couldn’t sprinkle too much for me!”

“It’d make icicles all over you, and——­”

“I wish it would,” said Sam.  “I’d eat ’em up.”

“And it’d snow on you——­”

“Yay!  I’d swaller it as fast as it’d come down.  I wish I had a barrel o’ snow right now.  I wish this whole barn was full of it.  I wish they wasn’t anything in the whole world except just good ole snow.”

Penrod and Herman rose and went out to the hydrant, where they drank long and ardently.  Sam was still talking about snow when they returned.

“No, I wouldn’t just roll in it.  I’d stick it all round inside my clo’es, and fill my hat.  No, I’d freeze a big pile of it all hard, and I’d roll her out flat and then I’d carry her down to some ole tailor’s and have him make me a suit out of her, and——­”

“Can’t you keep still about your ole snow?” demanded Penrod petulantly.  “Makes me so thirsty I can’t keep still, and I’ve drunk so much now I bet I bust.  That ole hydrant water’s mighty near hot anyway.”

“I’m goin’ to have a big store, when I grow up,” volunteered Maurice.

“Candy store?” asked Penrod.

“No, sir!  I’ll have candy in it, but not to eat, so much.  It’s goin’ to be a deportment store:  ladies’ clothes, gentlemen’s clothes, neckties, china goods, leather goods, nice lines in woollings and lace goods——­”

“Yay!  I wouldn’t give a five-for-a-cent marble for your whole store,” said Sam.  “Would you, Penrod?”

“Not for ten of ’em; not for a million of ’em! I’m goin’ to have——­”

“Wait!” clamoured Maurice.  “You’d be foolish, because they’d be a toy deportment in my store where they’d be a hunderd marbles!  So, how much would you think your five-for-a-cent marble counts for?  And when I’m keepin’ my store I’m goin’ to get married.”

“Yay!” shrieked Sam derisively.  “Married!  Listen!” Penrod and Herman joined in the howl of contempt.

“Certumly I’ll get married,” asserted Maurice stoutly.  “I’ll get married to Marjorie Jones.  She likes me awful good, and I’m her beau.”

“What makes you think so?” inquired Penrod in a cryptic voice.

“Because she’s my beau, too,” came the prompt answer.  “I’m her beau because she’s my beau; I guess that’s plenty reason!  I’ll get married to her as soon as I get my store running nice.”

Penrod looked upon him darkly, but, for the moment, held his peace.

“Married!” jeered Sam Williams.  “Married to Marjorie Jones!  You’re the only boy I ever heard say he was going to get married.  I wouldn’t get married for—­why, I wouldn’t for—­for——­” Unable to think of any inducement the mere mention of which would not be ridiculously incommensurate, he proceeded:  “I wouldn’t do it!  What you want to get married for?  What do married people do, except just come home tired, and worry around and kind of scold?  You better not do it, M’rice; you’ll be mighty sorry.”