“Where?” Carey wheeled around eagerly.
“Down on the dump. It was brought there yesterday, a whole lot of it, several cartloads; came from a place where they have been taking down an old wall, and they had no place to put it, I guess. Anyhow, it’s there.”
“I’ll go see if there’s enough,” said Carey, flashing out of the door and up the street.
He was back in a minute with a big stone in his hand.
“It’s just cellar stone,” he said deprecatingly; “but there’s plenty.”
“Humph!” said Louise maturely. “Well, I never thought I’d be glad I lived near that old dump! Do you mean we’re going to have a real fireplace, Carey?”
“That’s the contract, kid, and I guess I can make good. But how are we going to get that stone here?”
“There’s the express-wagon,” said Louise thoughtfully. “Harry has to work, but I could haul some.”
“You!” said Carey contemptuously; “do you suppose I’d let a girl haul stone for me? No, I’ll go borrow a truck. I know a fella has one, and it’s almost quitting time. I know he’ll lend it to me; and, if he does, I’ll work until I get those stones all landed, or like as not somebody else will get their eye on them. Stones like that cost a lot nowadays, even if they are only cellar stones.”
“Cellar stones are lovely,” said Cornelia delightedly. “They have a lot of iron in them, and make very artistic houses. I heard a big architect say that once in a lecture at college.”