“And I must have MISTER Hunchberg,” chirped Hamilton. “He must walk with me.”
“He tells ME,” said Beasley, “he'll be mighty glad to. And there's a plate of bones for Simpledoria.”
“You lead the way,” cried the child; “you and Mrs. Hunchberg.”
“Are we all in line?” Beasley glanced back over his shoulder. “HOO-ray! Now, let us on. Ho! there!”
“BR-R-RA-vo!” applauded Mister Swift.
And Beasley, his head thrown back and his chest out, proudly led the way, stepping nobly and in time to the exhilarating measures. Hamilton Swift, Junior, towed by the beaming old mammy, followed in his wagon, his thin little arm uplifted and his fingers curled as if they held a trusted hand.
When they reached the door, old Bob rose, turned in after them, and, still fiddling, played the procession and himself down the hall.
And so they marched away, and we were left staring into the empty room....
“My soul!” said the “Journal” reporter, gasping. “And he did all THAT—just to please a little sick kid!”
“I can't figure it out,” murmured Sim Peck, piteously.