“My dear madam,” put in Mr. Hunt, in his most impressive manner, “I am a man of the world, you are a woman of the world. Do we not know better than children what is best for them? I ask you, madam, as a woman of experience, do we not?”
“I—I—yes, I suppose so,” trembled Mrs. Perkins, quite carried away by all this. “If you’ll wait a second, sir, I’ll get the key.”
“Oh, dear, I do hope Paul won’t be mad,” she thought, as she hastened upstairs on her errand.
“Easier than I thought,” muttered Mr. Hunt, gazing intently at the pink-eyed china dog with blue spots that stood upon the mantel. “If the machine is what Freeman described it to be, there should be money in it, and where there is money, there you’ll find Stonington Hunt.”
Mrs. Perkins, with a shawl thrown over her head, was soon downstairs again.
“Now, sir,” she said, preparing to lead the way, but as they emerged from the door and started to take the brick path leading to the wagon house, a sudden sound of approaching boyish voices was heard.
“Why, here comes Paul now, with three of his friends,” exclaimed Mrs. Perkins, gazing across the white picket fence and up the street.
“Confound the luck,” ground out Mr. Hunt, with a very unangelic expression on his face, “it will need all my tact to carry this through if the cub proves obstinate.”
“Well, madam,” he said inquiringly, the next minute, as Mrs. Perkins still lingered by the fence.
“Oh, sir, I’ll leave it all to Paul now,” gasped Mrs. Perkins, secretly glad to be relieved of the responsibility. “Let him show his what-you-may-call-um off. He can do it better than I could. He understands it.”