“Don’t let him,” Sandy advised. “It’s a trick. He just wants to poke around.”
The foreign correspondent grinned. “I need help, all right. I’m no good at this.” He picked up the largest of the various bundles. “But this one is yours, Bert, so don’t touch it.”
“I’ll wrap that one,” Pop offered.
“Thanks.” Mr. Holt hefted two parcels of almost equal size, and finally handed one to Sandy. “That’s Pop’s—and don’t drop it.” He handed the other to Bert. “That’s Sandy’s—and that had better not be dropped either.”
Ken eyed the two packages still on the table. “Which is Mom’s? I’ll do hers.”
“Let that wait for last,” his father said. “I want a conference on it. In the meantime—” He took up the smaller of the two remaining parcels and set to work on it himself.
When they were all finished, Richard Holt began to tear the heavy newspaper wrapping from the final parcel. “Take a look at this, will you?” he asked. “If you don’t think Mom will like it, I’ll get her something else tomorrow. I don’t feel very satisfied with it myself.”
The last sheet of paper fell away to disclose a small iron box, about eight inches long, four inches wide, and four inches deep. The surface was heavily ornamented with scrollwork, and its considerable weight was evident from the way Ken’s father held it.
“I thought,” he said half-apologetically, “that she could line it with velvet or something and use it for a jewel box. But I don’t know much about such things. Maybe you can suggest something else she’d rather have.”
“She’ll love it,” Pop said decisively. “She loves old things—antiques. And this sure looks old.”