“It ain't like me usually,” admitted Peter. “I don't know who's been telling you about me, but usually I don't do any work I don't have to, and that's a fact, but certain circumstances—” he hesitated. “You didn't know why they took Buddy away from me, did you? I wasn't fit to keep him. I was like a certain woman was always tellin' me, I guess—shiftless and no-'count—so they took Buddy. And I guess they were right. But I've changed. It's going to take some time, but I'm going to make money, and I'm going to be like other folks, and I'm going to get Buddy back. So you see,” he said, after this outburst, “I've got to saw wood. If it wasn't for that I'd be right eager to make toys for all the kids you speak of. It would be a pleasure. But I've got to make some money.”
Mrs. Montgomery stared at him. “You don't mean to tell me—” she began. “You don't mean to say you thought I wanted you to give up everything and make toys for nothing?”
“Why, yes,” said Peter.
“But, my dear Mr. Lane!” exclaimed Mrs. Montgomery. “I do believe I almost persuaded you to do it!” She laughed joyously. “Oh, you are a true artist! Why, you can make many, many times as much money whittling jack-knife toys as you could make sawing wood! You can hire your own wood sawed.”
She descended to details and told him what he could sell the toys for; how she would tell of them in New York and interest a few dealers.
“You'll be working for Buddy all the while you are working for the other Buddys,” she ended, “making the home you want while you make the toys that will make little children happy.”
“That's so,” agreed Peter eagerly, and her battle was won. The rest was mere detail—her address in New York, prices, samples, Peter's address, and other similar matters. The farmer was willing enough to hunt another man to saw his wood. Mrs. Vandyne placed the orders with which she had been commissioned by the Baptist ladies; Mr. Vandyne—the cashier of the First National Bank—actually shook Peter's hand in farewell, and Peter was alone again.
When the voices of his visitors had died in the distance he lifted the mattress of his bunk and felt under it with his hand until he found a round, soft ball. He unrolled it and smoothed it out—Buddy's old, worn stockings, out at knees and toes.
“There, now,” he said, hanging them on a nail under his clock-shelf, “I guess I ain't afraid to have you look me in the face now.”
“What happened to the child he mentioned?” Mrs. Montgomery asked when she was snugly rug-enwrapped in the barouche once more.