They were waiting for him in the hall by his office door, sitting at the top of the flight of stairs and peering down into the elevator-shaft as the elevator shot up and down. He saw them as he stepped out, and smiled at them. They were fresh, wholesome boys, and he had a sense, as he fitted the key in the lock and they stood waiting behind his bent back, that they belonged to him. He had always thought of them as Rosalind’s boys!
He threw open the door and they went in, looking about them almost shyly; they were not shy boys, but father was a big man—and they looked at the place where he worked.... Some time they would be—men and have an office....
Eldridge Walcott turned back from the desk that he had opened. He had taken out a little roll of paper and slipped it into his pocket. Their eyes followed him gravely. He looked at them standing—half in their world, half in his—and smiled to them.
“You had to wait a good while, didn’t you?” he said.
They nodded together. “Most an hour,” said Tommie.
“Well, that’s all right—Something kept me. Come on.”
When they reached home that evening he handed the little roll of paper he had taken from the desk to Rosalind. “I have doubled it,” he said.
“There will be enough for everything you want.”
For a minute she did not speak. Then she took it. “Thank you,” she said slowly.