“It isn’t going to be brought here; didn’t you know?” McCarty’s own tones were invitingly confidential. “Mr. Orbit told Denny and me last night that he was arranging to have it taken to some undertaking establishment and buried from there. Didn’t he, Denny?”
Not yet sure of his ground, Dennis contributed merely a nod of affirmation to the conversation and after a disgusted look at him McCarty asked:
“What’s your name?”
“Bill—I mean ‘William’ Jennings.” The watchman replied promptly.
“Well, Bill, you’ve got a pretty soft job here, haven’t you? If you’re going to patrol your beat to the other gate Denny and me will stroll along with you. That’s all you have to do, isn’t it, except to give the eye to the pretty nurse-girls of all the kids on the block?”
Bill Jennings reddened sheepishly.
“The better the neighborhood the less kids there are in it, did you ever notice that?” he countered. “In all six of the families living on this block there are only three children: the Goddards’ boy, Horace, who is fourteen; Daphne Burminster, two years younger—she belongs in that great corner house over there but they haven’t come back yet from the country—and little Maudie Bellamy. Horace is kind of sickly and has a private teacher—they call him a ‘tutor’—and Miss Daphne has a maid and a governess, both of them old and sour. The Bellamy baby has the only nurse on the block and she’s foreign—French, I guess.”
“Some of those French girls are beauties.” McCarty spoke with the air of a connoisseur and Dennis coughed. The former added hastily: “Is this one a looker?”
“Pretty as a picture and as nice as she’s pretty!” There was immense respect as well as admiration in Bill’s voice. “I guess she ain’t been over long, for she’s awful young and shy but she knows how to take care of herself, as Alfred Hughes found out.”
He checked himself suddenly but McCarty chuckled with careless amusement.