Part 73

“Bears,” insisted Bobby.

“Well, once upon a time there were three bears--a big bear and a middle-sized bear and a little bear--” began Orde obediently.

Bobby, with a sigh of rapture and content, curled up in a snug, warm little ball. The twilight darkened.

“Blind-man's holiday!” warned Carroll behind them so suddenly that they both jumped. “And the sand man's been at somebody, I know!”

She bore him away to bed. Orde sat smoking in the darkness, staring straight ahead of him into the future. He believed he had found the opportunity--twenty years distant--for which he had been looking so long.

XXX

After a time Carroll descended the stairs, chuckling. “Jack,” she called into the sitting-room, “come out on the porch. What do you suppose the young man did to-night?”

“Give it up,” replied Orde promptly. “No good guessing when it's a question of that youngster's performances. What was it?”

“He said his 'Now I lay me,' and asked blessings on you and me, and the grandpas and grandmas, and Auntie Kate, as usual. Then he stopped. 'What else?' I reminded him. 'And,' he finished with a rush, 'make-Bobby-a-good-boy-and-give-him-plenty-of-bread-'n-butter-'n apple-sauce!'”

They laughed delightedly over this, clinging together like two children. Then they stepped out on the little porch and looked into the fathomless night. The sky was full of stars, aloof and calm, but waiting breathless on the edge of action, attending the word of command or the celestial vision, or whatever it is for which stars seem to wait. Along the street the dense velvet shade of the maples threw the sidewalks into impenetrable blackness. Sounds carried clearly. From the Welton's, down the street, came the tinkle of a mandolin and an occasional low laugh from the group of young people that nightly frequented the front steps. Tree toads chirped in unison or fell abruptly silent as though by signal. All up and down the rows of houses whirred the low monotone of the lawn sprinklers, and the aroma of their wetness was borne cool and refreshing through the tepid air.

Orde and his wife sat together on the top step. He slipped his arm about her. They said nothing, but breathed deep of the quiet happiness that filled their lives.

The gate latch clicked and two shadowy figures defined themselves approaching up the concrete walk.

“Hullo!” called Orde cheerfully into the darkness.

“Hullo!” a man's voice instantly responded.

“Taylor and Clara,” said Orde to Carroll with satisfaction. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

The lawyer and his wife mounted the steps. He was a quick, energetic, spare man, with lean cheeks, a bristling, clipped moustache, and a slight stoop to his shoulders. She was small, piquant, almost child-like, with a dainty up-turned nose, a large and lustrous eye, a constant, bird-like animation of manner--the Folly of artists, the adorable, lovable, harmless Folly standing tiptoe on a complaisant world.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” repeated Orde, as the two approached.

Clara Taylor stopped short and considered him for a moment.

“Let us away,” she said seriously to Carroll. “My prophetic soul tells me they are going to talk business, and if any more business is talked in my presence, I shall EXPIRE!”

Both men laughed, but Orde explained apologetically:

“Well, you know, Mrs. Taylor, these are my especially busy days for the firm, and I have to work my private affairs in when I can.”

“I thought Frank was very solicitous about my getting out in the air,” cried Clara. “Come, Carroll, let's wander down the street and see Mina Heinzman.”

The two interlocked arms and sauntered along the walk. Both men lit cigars and sat on the top step of the porch.

“Look here, Taylor,” broke in Orde abruptly, “you told me the other day you had fifteen or twenty thousand you wanted to place somewhere.”

“Yes,” replied Taylor.

“Well, I believe I have just the proposition.”

“What is it?”

“California pine,” replied Orde.