“Good heavens! Well, send him to boarding-school, then, or to the penitentiary; anywhere but here!”
“Shucks! Let the kid come,” laughed Bertram. “Poor little homesick devil! What's the use? I'll take him in. How old is he, anyhow?”
William frowned, and mused aloud slowly.
“Why, I don't know. He must be—er—why, boys, he's no child,” broke off the man suddenly. “Walter himself died seventeen or eighteen years ago, not more than a year or two after he was married. That child must be somewhere around eighteen years old!”
“And only think how Cyril WAS worrying about those tin carts,” laughed Bertram. “Never mind—eight or eighteen—let him come. If he's that age, he won't bother much.”
“And this—er—'Spunk'; do you take him, too? But probably he doesn't bother, either,” murmured Cyril, with smooth sarcasm.
“Gorry! I forgot Spunk,” acknowledged Bertram. “Say, what in time is Spunk, do you suppose?”
“Dog, maybe,” suggested William.
“Well, whatever he is, you will kindly keep Spunk down-stairs,” said Cyril with decision. “The boy, I suppose I shall have to endure; but the dog—!”
“Hm-m; well, judging by his name,” murmured Bertram, apologetically, “it may be just possible that Spunk won't be easily controlled. But maybe he isn't a dog, anyhow. He—er—sounds something like a parrot to me.”