“Now, look you, Bobby, it’s ten o’clock. Don’t you think you might give that bed a tryout?”
“Why, I never thought of that! Gee, but I’m tired!”
Mr. Compton thought, as he closed the door upon his ward, that his dealings with the boy were over till morning. He was mistaken. Presently, clad in rainbow pajamas, Bobby came forth.
“Now I’m ready,” he declared.
“Well, if you’re ready, why don’t you go to bed?”
“Ready,” explained the child, with reproach in his eyes, “for my night prayers.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the comedian. “I never thought of that!”
The lad’s curling lip warned Mr. Compton that his remark was not particularly happy.
“Of course, of course!” he added hastily. “How very absent-minded I am getting! By all means, Bobby, go on and say your prayers.”
As Mr. Compton thus spoke he was lying restfully on a lounge, a cigar in his mouth, a newspaper in his hands, and, within easy reach, a glass filled almost to the brim with a golden liquid. What was his surprise, thus situated, when Bobby plumped down on his knees and, planting his elbows in the softest part of the comedian’s anatomy, made the sign of the cross and recited the Our Father, the Hail Mary, and the Acts. And he did not stop there. Raising his sweet voice a little higher, and glancing during the first line about the walls of the room, Bobby recited: