If you can picture a gigantic igloo fronted by southern mansion pillars and dotted with eighteenth century gables, and having each wing done in a combination early Mexican and eastern Mosque style, you'll have just the roughest idea of what it was beginning to look like. For miles around, people were driving out to see that house in the evenings after construction men had left.
But the Stoddards were pleased. They were as happy about the whole mess as a pair of kids erecting a Tarzan dwelling in a tree. And the extra compensations I was getting for the additional trouble wasn't hurting me any.
I'll never forget the day when we completed the tiny belfry which topped off the monstrosity. Yes, a belfry. Just the kind you still see on little country churches and schoolhouses, only, of course a trifle different.
The Stoddards had come out to the lot to witness this momentous event; the completion, practically, of their dream child.
I was almost as happy as they were, for it stood as the symbol of the ending of almost all the grief for me.
My foreman came over to where I was standing with the Stoddards.
"You gonna put a bell in that belfry?" he asked.
George Stoddard looked at him as if he'd gone mad.
"What for?" he demanded.