We had almost seen him a couple of times, a good enough score for anybody.
But I still looked for him each time I went by. Maybe someday we would see him.
I imagined how it would be: when it happened, he’d just be sitting in the swing
when I came along. “Hidy do, Mr. Arthur,” I would say, as if I had said it every
afternoon of my life. “Evening, Jean Louise,” he would say, as if he had said it
every afternoon of my life, “right pretty spell we’re having, isn’t it?” “Yes sir,
right pretty,” I would say, and go on.