"Eh—what?"
He leaned down, failing to recognize her. Children had no identity to him. They were merely brats, he used to say, unless they happened to have some musical aptitude. But he accepted her aid, his battered old hat rocking excitedly upon his high bony forehead, as he ducked and turned and shivered at the oncoming balls. "Bad boys—bad boys!" he ejaculated. "Boys are the devil!"
"Yes," agreed Split, craftily. "Girls are best. Your little girl, now—father—" she began softly.
"Eh—what?" he exclaimed. "Who's your father? My respects to him."
"I have no father," she answered softly. A plan had sprung full-born from her quick brain. She would win this erratic father back to memory of his former life and her place in it—somewhat as did one Lucy Manette, a favorite heroine of Split's that Sissy had read about and told her of. That would be a fine thing to do—almost as fine, and requiring the center of the stage as much, as rehabilitating the Red Man.
"I have no father," she murmured, "if you won't be mine."
"What? What? No!" Trask was across now and brushing the snowy traces of battle from his queer old cape. "No; I don't want any children. I had one once—a daughter."
Split's heart beat fast.
"She was a brat, with the temper of a little fiend, and no ear—absolutely none—for music; played like an elephant."
How terribly confirmatory!