William frowned.
“Nonsense, Bertram, don't be silly! They'll be safe enough. Besides, they're old, anyhow. I was on spiders years ago—when I was Billy's age, in fact. I thought he'd like them here. You know boys always like such things.”
“Oh, 'twasn't Billy I was worrying about,” retorted Bertram. “It was you—and the spiders.”
“Not much you worry about me—or anything else,” replied William, good-humoredly. “There! how does that look?” he finished, as he carefully picked his way down the stepladder.
“Fine!—er—only rather warlike, maybe, with the guns and that riotous confusion of knives and scimitars over the chiffonier. But then, maybe you're intending Billy for a soldier; eh?”
“Do you know? I AM getting interested in that boy,” beamed William, with some excitement. “What kind of things do you suppose he does like?”
“There's no telling. Maybe he's a sissy chap, and will howl at your guns and spiders. Perhaps he'll prefer autumn leaves and worsted mottoes for decoration.”
“Not much he will,” contested the other. “No son of Walter Neilson's could be a sissy. Neilson was the best half-back in ten years at Harvard, and he was always in for everything going that was worth while. 'Autumn leaves and worsted mottoes' indeed! Bah!”
“All right; but there's still a dark horse in the case, you know. We mustn't forget—Spunk.”
The elder man stirred uneasily.