“Oh, because some day you’ll grow up and—well, I hope you won’t make a mess of it, as I have!”
“What’s make-a-mess-of-it?”
“Look here,” Graham demanded, “are you a walking interrogation point?”
“I’m Gerald Hammond Fitzgerald,” the boy answered with dignity.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Gerald Hammond Fitzgerald.” If Graham smiled inwardly, no shade of amusement crossed his face.
“’Me see it!” the little fellow pleaded.
“Say, you’ve got a fair share of persistence of your own, haven’t you?”
The artist drew the sketch from his pocket. He liked this small boy who leaned so confidently against his knee. Gerald glanced at the outline of himself and his full, childish laugh of pleasure rang out.
“Draw me some more with that pencil,” he pleaded, as though he thought the lead possessed some wonderful charm of its own.
“Tickles your vanity, does it? Well, here goes! Put down that pail. Now take your spade in both hands and stoop over as if you were digging.”