Avon Fantasy Reader No. 14 — page 54: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“T have to have them.” Ronald Frost turned away from his-toy closet with a fist full of marines. Jeffry watched him as he meticulously replaced the tin soldiers that had been clustered in groups on the tables and floor of his bed- rooin. Jeffry Wilburts smiled to himself. “Ah, changing the guard, eh?” “Yes.” No more than that. Not very communicative. Wilburts noticed that Ronald placed the soldiers in a carcful pattern. They formed a circle of toy-soldier protection around the center of the room. The center where Ronald Frost’s bed was! When Jeffry Wilburts, fresh from a teacher’s college course, had inter- viewed Mr. and Mrs. Frost for the job, this had been the main thing they had told him that day in the Frosts’ pleasant suburban home. “He's not at all a dull boy,” said Mrs. Frost with a sort of a perplexed pride, “but he has this fixation about soldiers.” “I'd hate to tell you what our bill is supplying the boy with these lead sol- diers,” snorted Mr. Frost. “And besides, I think Ronald is getting about old enough to give up playing with toy things like that.” The Frosts had liked young Wilburts and he them. He had taken up residence there as companion and tutor to Ronald. He soon realized that the young Frost lad was no ordinary twelve-year-old. The boy was bright when he wanted to be. He had imagination. But with alf of this Jeffry detected a certain listlessness that was most unbe- coming a chap of Ronald’s years. He shunned the company of other children of his age in the neighborhood, and although he did passably well in schoo!— his teacher told Wilburts that he would be an honor-roll pupil if he would only try-—his social adjustments were not at all normal. Ie detested the games that went on in the school yard and was in the habii of sneaking off home after class was out instead of mixing with his peers in a raid on the local ice-cream parlor. “We need somebody to bring him out,” said Mrs. Frost to Wilburts. “Heaven knows Mr. Frost and I have tried to do all we can for him... .” “You might be able to help my son, er, if I had one, but you can’t help your own,” quoted Wilburts brightly from something he remembered in a child psychology class. “Tt seerns you're right,” sighed Mrs. Frost. “We can’t help him, apparently, I still think a lot of this has to do with those stupid soldiers he’s so preoccupied with!" “Hligh time the boy got over these ideas,” said Mr. Frost with an anpry rustle of the paper. “But don’t try to just take the soldiers away from him. [t's an impossible task.” Mr. Frost elaborately rolled his eyes ceilingward. “I tried it once and he got so excited . . . well, we had to call Dr. Brown.” Properly warned and initiated on the way things stood, Wilburts started to apply his great knowledge of child psychology, learned from dusty library tomes and ayed professors who were much nearer their second childhood than their first. Jeffry quictly decided that he would closely observe the boy. It was prepos- 52 comicloooks. conn