“I guess I’m romantic,” she was accusing, that one persistent thought of “her own house that nobody wants” demanding constant mental attention. “But all the same, it’s more interesting than going to a poky old boarding school,” she derided.
Marty met her at the Twin Butternuts. He wanted to tell her so many things about his reconstructed home, with Mrs. Berg there all the time, and the baby sleeping all night long, and his mother going to be operated upon, that Gloria felt obliged to accept the appreciated report with a hasty word and reminder. They had to hurry, it might rain again.
“And dad’s tickled to death,” he flung in recklessly. “Says the op’ration ’ul fix ma fine, and says she’s got a swell nurse,” he puffed, in rhythm to the pumping of his wheel.
“Is he satisfied about the money now?” Gloria asked. She hoped he would cease “hounding” her Uncle Charley.
“Oh, ye’ah, yeah, sure,” replied Marty. “Gee whiz! He thinks you girls are wonders!”
They were leaving the village behind them now, and entering one of those suburbs outlined by indiscriminate dumps, struggling trees, railroad gardens and fearless, little, puddily brooks.
“We’re near there,” announced the scout. “This is the junction.”
“Not very attractive,” said Gloria too low for Marty to hear, but just now she was fearful of disappointment in her Echo Park interests.
“But it’s all cleaned up fine out further,” added Marty. “This is kinda rough, ain’t it?”
“Yes,” said Gloria, grasping her handle bar desperately while Marty fairly hugged his.
“Lots o’ puddles,” he remarked again. Marty was never dull company.
“Yes; we had a lot of rain. Sure you’ve got the key?”
“You betcha’,” and he clapped a hand over his sweater pocket. “It’s on a long string, can’t lose it.”
“Never been out here before?” he asked pompously.
“No, I thought it was all a sort of fairy tale.”
“Ain’t it? That’s what ma used to say. She said maybe a fairy would move in and settle her family there. They ain’t afraid of water in the cellar,” he scoffed approvingly.
“That’s it! That’s the park! Ain’t it swell?”
“Lovely,” breathed Gloria. Without the warning of even a smoothed road they had fairly spilled into the park—Echo Park! A rustic sign swinging from a real home grown, non-transplanted, little white birch tree, announced in quaint letters, cut deep into a barked shingle: