A fist, now, was softly pounding him; and Gregory's voice threatened tears. “What is it?” Lee Randon asked. “You will have to excuse me, I was thinking.”
The narrative which followed, the confused history of a two and a half dollar gold-piece finally taken from Gregory by his mother, was broken into by Helena's irrepressible contempt at his youthfulness.
“He thinks the money is gone,” she explained, “because Mother put it in the bank for him. I told him when he got it there would be a lot more, but he just wouldn't listen to me. No matter what anybody said it was no good.”
“Well,” Gregory inquired, “how much more?”
“I don't know, silly; but packs.”
“Seventy-seven dollars?”
“That depends on how long you leave it in the bank,” Lee instructed him. “If you didn't ask for it for twenty years—”
“But I want it next Thursday,” Gregory hotly interrupted; “won't it be any bigger then?”
“He does nothing but ask and ask questions,” Helena added. Lee patted Gregory's cheek:
“Don't let Helena discourage you. If I don't put the light out your mother will make me go to bed.”