Bobby’s eyes remained fastened on the page.
“Bobby!” he bawled.
The boy raised his eyes.
“Oh, it’s great!” he said. “I’ve read fifty-four pages.”
“You have read enough. Come, I want to show you your room.”
“All right, uncle,” returned the boy, wistfully laying down the story. “You’ve stopped me in a most exciting part.”
Throwing open the guestroom door, Compton said, “Walk in; it’s all yours.”
With an attempt at enthusiasm, Bobby complied. In a moment the forced enthusiasm became genuine. A small shining brass bed, a snow-white counterpane, a case of books filled with the best juveniles, an electric railroad, a baseball equipment, a tiny rocker, an easy chair, and a variety of games—all these and more charmed his eyes into a new brightness and marshaled out upon his features a myriad elves of happiness.
Before Mr. Compton could prepare for the worst Bobby jumped into his arms and caught him a kiss square upon his unprepared mouth.
For two hours Bobby flitted from toy to game, from game to book. He was possibly at that moment the happiest boy in the State of California.