“That kid? You don’t mean to say he’s stuck on you, too? Why he’s barely twenty-one an’ he can’t earn his own livin’.”
“It’s a real pleasure, Caleb, to hear your fulsome praise of the men I happen to know. First Mr. Blacarda, and now—”
“That’s what’s called ‘sarcasm,’ ain’t it?” asked Conover. “I didn’t mean to rile you. I guess young Hawarden’s all right,—as far’s college let him learn to be. What’s the bird’s name? Or don’t birds have names?”
“Why? Had you thought of one for him? How would ‘Steeloid’ do?”
Caleb’s grin of genuine delight at the suggestion made her add quickly with more tact than truth:
“I wish I’d thought of that before. How silly of me not to! For, you see he’s already named now.”
“Oh, he is, hey?” said the discomfited Conover. “Who named him? Hawarden?”
“No. Billy and I. His name’s Siegfried-Mickey.”
“What a crazy name for a—!”
“Yes, isn’t it? That’s why I like it so. Billy wanted to call him ‘Mickey’ after the bulldog he used to have. And I wanted to call him Siegfried. So we compromised on Siegfried-Mickey. He’s a dear. He knows his name already. Don’t you, Siegfried Mickey?”