“He told us he had a surprise,” murmured Tom slowly, “and it sure is.”
“Well, how do you like it, fellows?” asked Frank, after a momentous pause. “I thought, as long as I had broken the other sofa, that it was up to me to get a new one. We’ve been needing one a long time, and when I found that the other couldn’t be fixed very well, I just had the furniture man bring in this new one. It’s my treat. That’s what I telephoned about the night we went to the show. How do you like it?”
For a moment no one answered. Then Tom went slowly over to the new davenport, and softly felt of the springy seat.
“It—it’s real,” he murmured, in disappointed tones.
Phil wet one finger, cautiously applied it to the green plush, and then pretended to taste of his digit, as though he was a doctor, sampling some new and rare kind of drug.
“Yes, it—it’s real,” he emitted with a sigh.
Sid carefully rubbed his handkerchief on the shining mahogany frame.
“I—I’m afraid so,” he agreed.
“Why, you mutts! of course it’s real,” gasped Frank. “It’s a new one in place of the old sofa. That isn’t any good any more. This is a dandy. Four of us can sit on it at once, the man said, and it won’t sag or break. Don’t you like it?”