"Perhaps," I said, "I'm not such a strategist after all!"
"Nettie," said Ned, "cheer up. You have your share of brains. I, your husband, say it. And if your husband admits it, it must be so. But, Nettie dear, don't forget that here with the children is your bidding suit. Lead the play up to the children, Nettie, and they will sure have to hold some cards to set you."
"I haven't seen you in a year—go ahead and laugh at me," I said. But I didn't care—he was my own Ned, and I had him, and told him so.
"And haven't I you!" said Ned—and swept me with the children into his arms.
And Nan and Larry were sitting out on the balcony—I could hear their murmuring voices through an open window; and from the patio below I could make out the tinkle of a fountain and some kind of a native instrument, and a voice chanting—not of pride or glory or riches, but of love—human, humble, eternal love. And before I even knew I was crying Ned was kissing the tears from my eyes.
The Weeping Annie
We had a baby born, and when he was old enough to almost wiggle out of his baby-carriage the wife asks me if I didn't think it was time to consider seriously the future of my growing family. Well, she pretty generally told me what I ought to do, and Wheezer Mills and Scoot Schulte had been writing to me to come on South and share what looked like a good prospect to them in the wrecking line.
I went South, and even after I'd inspected what they'd picked up for a bargain I didn't reproach them; for, after all, what's an old wrecking tug beside two old friends? The Weeping Annie was her name, and she had her virtues, but not the kind to take to sea with you.
We had great hopes that fall of what we would do in the Annie. But luck was against us. It turned out a clear, mild winter, with wrecks infrequent; so coming on to spring we swapped the Annie for a self-propelling steam-lighter with a pile-driving attachment on the for'ard end, called the Happy Day.