Had she been seen? She could try bolting from her spot and out-racing the seeker, gasping a “Home-free-home!” as she tagged “It” (whatever “It” might be—a fireplug, the door to the O’Lunneys’ cellar, the telephone pole with the green stripe).

Or she might feel confidence in her hiding place. It took such willpower to do nothing when the seeker was only a few feet away. The urge to abandon the effort, the dread of the big face suddenly thrust into hers, bellowing, “I SEE YOU!” But at last the hunter would move along. She was safe.

Then, after a long silence, the mocking drawl of the seeker. “I see Linney, one-two-three”—as if you had fooled them for even a second!—“hiding behind the stoop of the Butrams’ house.” How foolish she would feel.

Or perhaps there would be no call. They had not seen her at all. Not at all!

That would be the greatest thrill. All the kids have been called out and you are the last and no one—no one—can find you. The place they never thought of looking, the coal bin next to the Cicchettis’, the unlocked cab of the Nankins’ van. Was there ever such a gorgeous sound as “Linney, you can come out now, you win!” not just called out of hiding by the seeker but by everyone? “Come on, Linney, it’s not a trick, we’re all in, the game’s over!” And finally, you rise from your perfect hiding place and the others marvel, “There? She was there? I would never have thought to look there!”

“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen . . .”

She’d had enough of the embarrassing stoops and humiliating lampposts and being caught first, having to stand by Home for the duration of the game.

“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . .”

There! At the back of the O’Lunneys’. That had never been there before. It could probably just fit her. They’d never find her! She raced to it, and just as the cry of “Twenty-five! Ready or not, here I come!” rang out, she nestled into the old icebox that lay abandoned on its back and closed the door above her with a satisfying clunk.

It was 6:27 P.M.

I was walking in the front door. “Nance?” I called.

She was in the kitchen, going over some figures in a ledger she’d brought home from work. “I’m here,” she said.

“Me too,” I said. “That’s it for my day.”

“You don’t have to go out again?” she asked.

I was happier than a kid who’s just heard that school is closed on account of snow. “Nance, it turned out to be one of those garden-party socials. They started folding up the chairs at half past five.”

I opened the icebox and started looking for the pitcher of ice water we kept there.

“I didn’t expect you home for dinner,” Nancy said.

“That’s okay. Where’s Linney?”

“Out playing,” she said.