The boy turned to his mother. “Well, what do you think of that?” he said. Then, to Joanne, “Tell us about him, won’t you?”
Joanne moved over to where he stood.
“This is my mother,” he said. “My name is Bob Marriott. What’s yours?”
“Joanne Selden,” was the reply.
“Sit down, won’t you?” The lady indicated a vacant chair by her side. “My son has been telling me about the little pony you have below.”
“He isn’t exactly mine,” responded Joanne; “he is Grad’s—that’s what I call my grandfather. I couldn’t say grandfather when I was little, so I always called him Grad. He is a dear, the pony, I mean, though my grandfather is, too, for that matter.”
Bob laughed. “I’ve seen him and I think he is fine—the pony, I mean,” then coloring up, “of course your grandfather is, too.”
Then they all laughed and felt very well acquainted.
“So the fine pony is your fine grandfather’s,” began Bob’s mother. “However, I suppose that is the same as if he belonged to you, isn’t it?”
“Well,” answered Joanne rather doubtfully, “perhaps so, if Grad decides to keep him. You see he came most unexpectedly, as if he’d dropped from the skies. I’ll tell you about it.” So she launched forth into the story of Chico which, of course, included that of Pablo, ending up by saying: “So you see poor Grad is in quite a pickle. He has two things on his hands that he doesn’t know what to do with, three if you count me.”