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Studs wondered what he meant by artist. He thought an artist was a guy who painted pictures, and always raved like a maniac because nobody liked his pictures.

Holy Jumpin’ Jimminy! Studs almost laughed right in the guy’s face.

“You must come over now and start those lessons.”

“Some time I will,” said Studs. -

“Don’t hesitate. He who hesitates is lost. You have your opportunity now, my boy, and opportunity strikes but once. Now tomorrow morning I’ll be free. My mother will be out at eleven, and suppose you come then, and we’ll be all alone and there won’t be no one to bother us, and we’ll be free... for our first lesson.”

Leon placed his arm around Studs’ shoulder.

‘Well, tomorrow, I gotta beat rugs for my mother.”

“But mother might let you off if you say it’s to take music lessons.”

“You don’t know my mother.”

“But mothers can be convinced. Now, I know. I have a mother who still tries to boss me.”

Studs didn’t have any answer for Leon. Leon tried to convince Studs. Then he had to rush to get to a lesson. He gave Studs a final pat, and told him to think it over. As he started to wriggle his rump along, he turned and said:

“Well, ta, ta! Now, don’t forget the lessons... and don’t do anything naughty-nasty... like tickling the girlies. Ta! Ta!”

He waved his arm womanishly, and went on. Studs watched him. He laughed. He felt a little queer. He wondered why Leon was always placing his hands on a guy.

II

Studs kept futzing around until Helen Shires came out with her soccer ball. Then they dribbled back and forth on the paving in front of her place. She lived next door to the Scanlans. It was a drearily lazy June morning now, and they played. Helen was a lean, muscular girl, tall and rangy, with angular Swedish features, blue eyes and yellowish white hair. She was tanned, and wore a blue wash dress, which was constantly ruffling up, so that her purplish-blue wash bloomers showed. She looked very healthy.

They played. Helen took the ball to dribble. She strode down about six yards, turned around, and dribbled forward, straight and fast, with the form and force of a star basketball player. All the guys used to say she was a natural athlete. Studs stood squat, his hands spread fan-wise, his body awkwardly tensed for sudden effort. As she approached him, she feinted toward her right, changed her stroke from left to right hand, and passed him on his right, making him look quite sick.

Studs side-glanced up at the Scanlan parlor window. He’d never before been jealous of Helen’s athletic skill, but now he was. Maybe Lucy had been peeping behind the curtain. He had hoped she was. Now he changed his wish.

“I don’t like basketball so well,” he said, grinning weakly.

“You will after you learn the game,” she answered, dribbling back.

She dribbled again, and Studs, with a chance swing of the right arm, batted the ball out into the street. He changed his wish, and covertly side-glanced at the Scanlan window. Helen complimented him on his good guarding.

It was his turn. He came forward, awkward, clumsier than usual because he tried to show form. He bounced the ball too hard and too high, and he was slowed down. He lost control of the ball before he reached her, and it bounded onto the grass.

It was good he was only pretending that Lucy watched him. They kept dribbling, and she kept making him look sick. She was having a better time than he, because she could do the thing, and she could get the satisfaction one gets out of doing a thing right. But he stuck on.

Once when they paused, she said:

“You ought to make the football team at Loyola.”

“I’d like to,” he said.

“You will,” she said.

They talked for a while, and resumed dribbling. She dribbled and he guarded. He took a turn, and she snatched the ball from him, pivoted gracefully, and dribbled down the other way. They alternated, and he kept side-glancing at the Scanlan window.

After a half-hour, they were both a little fagged, and they sat on Helen’s front steps.

“Say, Studs, there’s a can house around on Fifty-seventh Street,” she said.

“There is?”