“Fred Purcell.”
Morey passed a good part of the afternoon in his room. He thought, figured, walked the floor and at times went out into the yard and looked critically at things that, heretofore, he had never seen. At the evening meal his mother commented on his quietness. She attributed it to disappointment over the loss of his aeroplane motor.
“After all, Mortimer,” she said indulgingly, “I’ve been wondering today if we were not just a little hard with you. Perhaps it might be arranged.”
The boy smiled, patted his mother’s shapely hand and said:
“Don’t bother about that, mater. I’ve put it out of my mind. Major Carey’s arguments were absolutely convincing.” And he smiled again.
“We never can repay Major Carey for all he has done for us,” said Mrs. Marshall, sipping her tea.
“Well, any way, I’m going to try,” answered Morey.
But this meant nothing to Mrs. Marshall, who was buttering a biscuit.
“You had quite a long talk with our old friend. What was the nicest thing he said to you?”