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"
Well
,
"
said
Fern
defensively
,
"
my
hip
’
s
bothered
me
for
years
,
and
you
always
get
tired
walking
.
It
seemed
so
refined
,
so
regal
.
Like
in
the
old
days
when
women
wore
hoop
skirts
.
They
sailed
!
The
Green
Machine
sailed
so
quietly
.
"
Like
an
excursion
boat
,
wonderfully
easy
to
steer
,
a
baton
handle
you
twitched
with
your
hand
,
so
.
Oh
,
that
glorious
and
enchanted
first
week
—
the
magical
afternoons
of
golden
light
,
humming
through
the
shady
town
on
a
dreaming
,
timeless
river
,
seated
stiffly
,
smiling
at
passing
acquaintances
,
sedately
purring
out
their
wrinkled
claws
at
every
turn
,
squeezing
a
hoarse
cry
from
the
black
rubber
horn
at
intersections
,
sometimes
letting
Douglas
or
Tom
Spaulding
or
any
of
the
other
boys
who
trotted
,
chatting
,
alongside
,
hitch
a
little
ride
.
Fifteen
slow
and
pleasurable
miles
an
hour
top
speed
.
They
came
and
went
through
the
summer
sunlight
and
shadow
,
their
faces
freckled
and
stained
by
passing
trees
,
going
and
coming
like
an
ancient
,
wheeled
vision
.
"
And
then
,
"
whispered
Fern
,
"
this
afternoon
!
Oh
,
this
afternoon
!
"
"
It
was
an
accident
.
"
"
But
we
ran
away
,
and
that
’
s
criminal
!
"
This
noon
.
The
smell
of
the
leather
cushions
under
their
bodies
,
the
gray
perfume
smell
of
their
own
sachets
trailing
back
as
they
moved
in
their
silent
Green
Machine
through
the
small
,
languorous
town
.
It
happened
quickly
.
Rolling
soft
onto
the
sidewalk
at
noon
,
because
the
streets
were
blistering
and
fiery
,
and
the
only
shade
was
under
the
lawn
trees
,
they
had
glided
to
a
blind
comer
,
bulbing
their
throaty
horn
.
Suddenly
,
like
a
jack
-
in
-
the
-
box
,
Mister
Quartermain
had
tottered
from
nowhere
!
"
Look
out
!
"
screamed
Miss
Fern
.
"
Look
out
!
"
screamed
Miss
Roberta
.
