"When will the money come?" she asked, tilting her head to one side to get a look in the small oval mirror, that was sufficiently large for the major's neckties, but was plainly too short for hats.
"We won't get it by the pound, like butter, you know, daughter. Nor is it a matter of so many blank checks to be filled out as we progress with penmanship—like copy-book work. As a matter of fact, I have just received the legal information that my dear old soldier uncle Ned—otherwise known as Captain Edward Dale on the retired list, resident of India, subject of Great Britain, has answered the last roll call—and left what he had to me. Uncle Ned was the hero of our family, daughter dear, and some day I will tell you why you are my Little Captain—his own successor," and the major laid his hand upon Dorothy's shoulder in a way he had of making a promise that he intended to keep.
A commotion on the side porch interrupted their confidences, and the major took advantage of it to make his escape. He kissed Dorothy good-bye, and left her to the "commotion" that presently made its way in at the door in the shape of Tavia Travers, Dorothy's warmest friend in every thing.
"Hurrah for the good news!" shouted Tavia, flinging her sailor hat up to the ceiling and catching it as promptly.
"Three cheers for the money,
When will it come?
Give a feller some
Tiddle-umtum-tum
I have to say bunny,
To make a rhyme with money!"
And Tavia swung around like a pin-wheel to bring her "verse" to an effective full stop—a way she had of punctuating her impromptu productions.
Dorothy made a comical "squat" to add more finish, and then the two girls, feeling better for having opened the safety valve of physical exertion to "let off" mental exuberance, sat down to talk it over quietly.
"Are you perfectly positive, certain, sure, that it's just you, Dorothy Dale, and no fairy or mermaid," began Tavia, settling herself among the cushions on Major Dale's sofa. "Of all the delicious, delectable things! To have a rich, old uncle die 'way off in India, where you don't even have to make your nose red at his funeral. And to leave you a million dollars—"
"Oh, not quite a million," interrupted Dorothy. "Something considerable less than that, I believe."
"But it's all kinds of money I know," went on the other. "Dear me! I do wish some kind of money would run in our family even with red noses thrown in. But no such luck! When we have a funeral we always have to pay for the coach."