At Miss Foley’s house, they glanced up. In one of the softly lit front windows, someone stood looking out. A boy, no more and no less than twelve years old. “Will!” cried Jim, softly. “That boy—” “Her nephew . . .?” “Nephew, heck! Keep your head away. Maybe he can read lips. Walk slow. To the corner and back. You see his face? The eyes, Will! That’s one part of people don’t change, young, old, six or sixty! Boy’s face, sure, but the eyes were the eyes of Mr. Cooger!”
Oh
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