I capered back with him—it almost kills me to see him run—bull-dogs weren’t built for grace. Of course, I saw nothing of the babies, but we listened under the window, and occasionally heard little faint peeps like young birds.
“Look at mister walking in the blue garden,” gurgled Gringo. “Wouldn’t you think he was tramping on wool?”
The blue garden was full of blue flowers of different shades, and rocks, and rills, and rustic seats and arbours. It was a delicious spot, and very æsthetic.
Mr. Bonstone certainly didn’t look blue. He was walking to and fro quite quickly, in spite of the heat, and occasionally he lifted his eyes to the sky.
“Doesn’t know whether he’s on his head or his heels,” whispered Gringo.
Suddenly the man stooped down, and picked a bachelor’s button to put in his coat. Then with a broad smile, he picked another, and put beside it.
“Remembers he’s got to run double,” said Gringo gleefully. “Believe me, I’m happy for mister.”
“What are you going to call your babies?” I enquired. “You’ll never get such a good name as George Washington.”
“We had only one ready,” said Gringo, “that was John. I guess mister will settle on Mary for the girl, if missis don’t object.”
“Well,” I said, “you’re pretty close to us. John and Mary are two of the oldest and best of names. Nothing fancy about them.”