“Originally a summerhouse, I built it over to please my daughter,” the old man told us quietly. And there was something in the tone of his voice that made us think that the memory of his daughter wasn’t a happy one. “It’s of no use to me now. As a matter of fact, this is the first time that I have been inside of it for years. For your purpose, of course, it would be better to move it to my vacant lot across the street from the canning factory.”
Poppy fairly danced with joy.
“Why, there couldn’t anything be better, Mr. Weckler. It fits our scheme to a ‘T.’ For like the scheme, itself, it’s different. Everybody will notice it. And it’s plenty big enough, too. We can build our shelves on the sides,” he began to plan, “and put the counter back here. Of course,” he ran off into a merry laugh, “it won’t be a very big counter.” Then he stopped. “But maybe,” he looked up at the old man with his big solemn eyes, “we can’t afford to pay you what it’s worth.”
“You paid for it,” came shortly, “when you went down into the cistern to rescue my cat.”
“But that wasn’t anything. I’d do that for any cat.”
I could see that the old man liked Poppy. For his eyes showed it.
“I dare say you would,” he nodded. “Which is all the more reason why you’re deserving of any help that I can give you. No, you needn’t say any more about it. The playhouse is yours to take or leave, as you see fit. As for moving it onto my lot, if you decide to do that you can pay me five dollars a month.”
“Only five dollars a month for the whole business?” cried Poppy. “That isn’t enough. We expect to make a lot of money when we get organized. And I don’t think it’s right for us to fill our own pockets and not pay you what we should.”
“Possibly,” came the dry suggestion, “you would like to take me into partnership with you.”
“Hot dog!” cried Poppy.