“Promise you will never let any one else kiss you there,” Susan had once begged.
“I promise,” Grandfather had answered with a laugh. And no doubt he kept his word.
But now, he put his hand into his baggy coat pocket and pulled out a plump summer squash.
“I thought this would make a nice dolly for you,” said he. “I picked it up after dinner in the garden.” And with his knife he deftly cut eyes and nose and mouth, and handed over the simpering orange-colored baby to the delighted Susan.
“Now we will go down to the office,” said he, “and let Grandmother have a nap this afternoon. I have to see a man on business, but you can play around the schoolhouse while I’m busy.”
At the roadside gate they stopped a moment “to catch the breeze,” said Grandfather, pulling off his hat and mopping his brow.
A man, whistling a lively tune, came up the road, and surely he felt the heat but little, for he wore a brown velveteen jacket and had knotted about his throat a bright red handkerchief. His face was brown and his soft hat showed dark curling hair underneath the brim.
Grandfather eyed him shrewdly, and, as the man passed the gate, he spoke.
“Sarishan,” said Grandfather.
The man stopped short and looked Grandfather straight in the eye.