“Cracky!” ejaculated the elder boy in dismay.
Doodles laughed. “Didn’t you s’pose I meant to-day?”
“No, I didn’t,” was the dry answer.
“But you’d like to go, wouldn’t you?” persisted the other.
Blue groaned silently. “What you want me to do?” he parried.
Doodles bent forward in his eagerness. “Why, just take Caruso, and let him sing for Miss Fleming—that’s all!”
All! Blue hunted desperately for a solid objection.
“Why, kiddie,” he began in haste, “don’t you worry about her! She’s rich, rich as Cæsar—” he broke off abruptly at sight of his brother’s hurt face. “You know,” he started again gently, “she could have a dozen birds to sing for her if she wanted ’em.”
“Yes, but she couldn’t have Caruso unless I sent him!” chuckled the small boy. “And, besides,” he went on gravely, “I want to do something for God, to show Him I appreciate the stove and the money He sent. I think He would like me to comfort Miss Fleming, don’t you?”
Poor Blue! he nestled uneasily in the old rocker, and muttered, “I guess so.”