The boy grinned.
“Never say die,” said the comedian, smiling pleasantly and winking.
“I’ll say so!” returned Bob, and reproduced to a nicety Compton’s identical wink.
Compton’s perplexity was entirely gone. He liked Bobby from the first; but with that wink he loved him. So, light of heart, John Compton forced his features into the exaggerated smile which, in the opinion of his director, would, when once known, be worth a fortune, and Bobby for the first time since the roller came upon him burst into a laugh, clear, silvery—sweeter, dearer at that moment to Compton than all the music that had ever charmed his ears.
“Hey! Do it again,” cried Bobby, standing up and wearing an air of seraphic joy. Mr. Compton accepted the encore gratefully, but lost his great smile almost instantaneously when Bobby, allowing for a smaller mouth and more delicate features, reproduced the million-dollar grin.
“Upon my word!” exclaimed the thoroughly amazed comedian. “I must say I like you.”
“And I like you.”
“In fact, I like you very much.”
“And I like you very much.”
“What’s your name, little screecher?”