"I'd love to roll to Rio
Some day before I'm old..."
The sail rose steadily to the unsung chorus. Ken was quite happy.
He walked all the way home--it was a long walk--with his head full of plans for a seafaring life, and his nostrils still filled with the strange, fascinating, composite smell of the docks.
Felicia met him at the gate. She looked quite done for, he thought, and she caught his sleeve.
"Where have you been?" she said, with a queer little excited hitch in her voice. "I've been almost wild, waiting for you. Mother's headache is horribly worse; she's gone to bed. A letter came this morning, I don't know what, but I think it has something to do with her being so ill. She simply cries and cries--a frightening sort of crying--and says, 'I can't--can't!' and wants Father to tell her what to do."
They were in the hall by this time.
"Wants Father!" Ken said gravely. "Have you got the doctor, Phil?"
"Not yet; I wanted to ask you."
"Get him--quick."
Ken ran upstairs. Halfway, he tumbled over something crouched beside the banisters. It was Kirk, quite wretched. He caught Ken's ankle.