'Now then, behave! What did I say about that face?'
Mr. Don smiles at once, obediently.
'That's better. I'll sit here.'
We see from his father's face which is smiling with difficulty that Dick
has plopped into the big chair on the other side of the ingle-nook. His
legs are probably dangling over one of its arms.
Rather sharply, 'Got your pipe?'
'I don't--I don't seem to care to smoke nowadays, Dick.'
'Rot! Just because I am dead! You that pretend to be plucky! I won't
have it, you know. You get your pipe, and look slippy about it.'
'Yes, Dick,' the old man says obediently. He fills his pipe from a jar
on the mantelshelf. We may be sure that Dick is watching closely to see
that he lights it properly.
'Now, then, burn your thumb with the match--you always did, you know.
That's the style. You've forgotten to cock your head to the side. Not so
bad. That's you. Like it?'
'It's rather nice, Dick. Dick, you and me by the fire!'
'Yes, but sit still. How often we might have been like this, father,
and weren't.'
'Ah!'
'Face. How is Fido?'
'Never a dog missed her master more.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122