“Come along, all of you, if you like. He won't wake up. He's sleeping like a top—can't help it, with all that bread and milk inside of him. Part cream it was, too. I saw Cynthia chucking it in. He'd got her, good and plenty, in the first five minutes. Bless her susceptible heart! Come on.”
“Talk of susceptible hearts,” jeered Macauley as he followed. “There's the softest one in the county.”
“Nobody would ever guess it,” murmured Pauline Hempstead.
They tiptoed into the house, across the offices into the big, square room which was Burns's own. He switched on a hooded reading-light beside the bed and turned it so that its rays fell on the small occupant.
He lay in spread-eagle, small-child fashion, arms and legs thrown wide, the black, curly head disdaining the pillow, one fist clutching a man's riding-crop. In sleep the little face was an exquisite one; the onlookers might guess what it would be awake.
Burns pointed at the crop, smiling. “That was the nearest approach to a plaything I could muster to-night. To-morrow the shops will help me out.”
“I'll send over plenty in the morning, Red,” whispered Martha Macauley. Her eyes were suspiciously shiny.
“Did you bring him home just now?” questioned Winifred.
Burns nodded. “I hadn't meant to get him to-night, if I did at all. My call took me within half a mile. I went over and saw him again. That settled it.”
The small sleeper stirred, sighed. Burns turned off the light in a twinkling. “He's not used to electricity point blank,” he chuckled.