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!"
"No!"
"Yes!"
They both stopped to enjoy the swift pound of each other's heart.
"Keep moving." They moved. Jim held Will's arm tight, leading him. "You did see Mr. Cooger's eyes, huh? When he held us up fit to crack our heads together? You did see the boy, just off the ride? He looked right up near me, hid in the tree, and boy! it was like opening the door of a furnace! I'll never forget those eyes! And there they are now, in the window. Turn around. Now, let's walk back easy and nice and slow.... We got to warn Miss Foley what's hiding in her house, don't we?"
"Jim, look, you don't give a darn about Miss Foley or what's in her house!"
Jim said nothing. Walking arm in arm with Will he just looked over at his friend and blinked once, let the lids come down over his shiny green eyes and go up.
And again Will had the feeling about Jim that he had always had about an old almost forgotten dog. Some time every year that dog, good for many months, just ran on out into the
world and didn't come back for days and finally did limp back all burred and scrawny and odorous of swamps and dumps; he had rolled in the dirty mangers and foul dropping places of the world, simply to turn home with a funny little smile pinned to his muzzle. Dad had named the dog Plato, the wilderness philosopher, for you saw by his eyes there was nothing he didn't know. Returned, the dog would live in innocence again, tread patterns of grace, for months, then vanish, and the whole thing start over. Now, walking here he thought he heard Jim whimper under his breath. He could feel the bristles stiffen all over Jim. He felt Jim's ears flatten, saw him sniff the new dark. Jim smelled smells that no one knew, heard ticks from clocks that told another time. Even his tongue was strange now, moving along his lower, and now his upper lip as they stopped in front of Miss Foley's house again.
The front window was empty.
"Going to walk up and ring the bell," said Jim.
"What, meet him face to face?!"
"My aunt's eyebrows, Will. We got to check, don't we? Shake his paw, stare him in his good eye or some such, and if it is him--"
"We don't warn Miss Foley right in front of him, do we?"
"We'll phone her, later, dumb. Up we go!"
Will sighed and let himself be walked up the steps wanting but not wanting to know if the boy in this house had Mr. Cooger hid but showing like a firefly between his eyelashes.
Jim rang the bell.
"What if he answers?" Will demanded. "Boy, I'm so scared I could sprinkle dust. Jim, why aren't you scared, why?"
Jim examined both of his untrembled hands. "I'll be darned," he gasped. "You're right! I'm not!"
The door swung wide.
Miss Foley beamed out at them.
"Jim! Will! How nice."
"Miss Foley," blurted Will. "You okay?"
Jim glared at him. Miss Foley laughed.
"Why shouldn't I be?"
Will flushed. "All those darn carnival mirrors--"
"Nonsense, I've forgotten all about it. Well, boys, are you coming in?"