"He—he ain't so turruble brown," asserted Sundown. "'Course, he's tanned up some, seein' we keep him outside lots. I'm kind o' tanned up meself, and I reckon he takes after me."
"He has a head shaped just like yours," said Margery, anxious to please the proud father.
"Then," said Sundown solemnly, "he's goin' to be a pole."
Anita, proud of her offspring, her husband, her neat and clean home, laughed softly, and held out her arms for the baby. With a kick and a struggle the young Sundown wriggled to her arms and snuggled against her, gravely inspecting the pink roses on his mother's white dress. They were new to him. He was more used to blue gingham. The roses were interesting.
"Yes, Billy's me latest improvement," said Sundown, anxious to assert himself in view of the presence of so much femininity and a correspondingly seeming lack of vital interest in anything save the baby.
"Billy!" said Corliss, turning from where he had stood gazing out of the window.
"Uhuh! We named him Billy after you."
Corliss turned again to the window.
Sundown stepped to him, misinterpreting his silence. He put his hand on Corliss's shoulder. "You ain't mad 'cause we called him that, be you?"
"Mad! Say, Sun,"—and Corliss laughed, choked, and brushed his eyes. "Sun, I don't deserve it."