Jock's protest sounded down the hall. “Don't leave me alone with her. She'll blarney me into consenting to blue-and-pink rosebud paper in my bedroom.”
T. A. Buck had the courage to smile even at that. Emma McChesney was watching him, her clear eyes troubled, anxious.
At the door Buck turned, came back a step or two. “I—I think, if you don't mind, I'll play hooky this time and run over to Atlantic City for a couple of days. You'll find things slowing up, now that the holidays are so near.”
“Fine idea—fine!” agreed Emma McChesney; but her eyes still wore the troubled look.
“Good-by,” said T. A. Buck abruptly.
“Good—” and then she stopped. “I've a brand-new idea. Give you something to worry about on your vacation.”
“I'm supplied,” answered T. A. Buck grimly.
“Nonsense! A real worry. A business worry. A surprise.”
Jock had joined them, and was towering over his mother, her hand in his.
T. A. Buck regarded them moodily. “After your pajama and knickerbocker stunt I'm braced for anything.”