The little boy, his eyes shining, looked into his friend's face. "Oh! we're having fun," he cried, "fun like other boys with their fathers. I wish you'd come every day! I like you."
"Supposing," said Watts, "I was to pitch my tent just outside your gate here, would Mother let me stay?"
Pudge deliberated. "She might, perhaps. I could ask her," and hopefully, "Maybe she wouldn't say no; maybe she would say, 'We'll see.'"
Watts smiled to himself. "How about food; my black horse and Friar Tuck, my big dog, would you bring us things to eat every morning?"
Now Pudge was slightly taken back. "You could have half my breakfast," he promised as man to man, "and one graham cracker," but the thing grew to present difficulties to Pudge; "and one baked apple on Sundays," he faltered slowly.
"Nothing more?" The man standing there squeezed the fat legs hungrily. "Why," said Watts, "you'd surely let me have a little milk"; this camel was becoming a responsibility.
Now the desert rider hedged a little. "Well, you see," urged Pudge, "Mother wants me to drink all my milk; you see," he explained, "the more good milk I drink the more good boy I am."
"Sure." Watts slid him down to terra firma. "Well, I guess we can fix it up some way. Now about this mother of yours; let's stand down here and call up all sorts of nice names to her and see which one she'll answer, which one will make her come down to us."
Together they stood, the tall man with the dark dappled hair and the little shaver in blue linen, shouting such names as occurred to them up to the little garret window.
"Lady of Shalot," called Watts; he cast an eye about the sweet summer garden at a seat under a big horse-chestnut, "Lady of Shalot, come down and speak to Pudge's Camel."