Louis, too, contributed something besides his fine tenor voice:
"What makes your stove smoke so, Bud?" he questioned.
And Bud explained, with some stammering, that there was something wrong about the pipe; one joint did not fit right into another joint—or, as he expressively stated it, "One j'int was too small, and t'other was too large, and so they didn't work well."
"I should say not," said Louis, amused. "The wonder is that they work at all, with such a double difficulty as that to contend with. Well, Bud, you tell Hawkins to come in to-morrow, and see what is the matter with the joints, and make the large one small and the small one large, or fix it in any other way that suits his genius, so that the thing won't smoke, and send his bill to me. We will have our throats all raw here, before the important day arrives."
"A music-stool, and an organ-tuner, and a new elbow for the stove-pipe," commented Ruth Jennings, in a complacent tone, as they walked home in the snow. "The Ansteds are good for something in the world, after all."
About the home-going there was some talk. Claire, down by the stove adjusting her rubbers, caught the watchful, wistful gaze of Bud, and remembered what Ruth had said about her influence over him. How could she exert it so that it would tell on Bud forever? What was there that she could say to him? When was her opportunity? Right at hand, perhaps; she would try.
"Bud," she said, "are you going to see me home through this snow-storm? or must you make haste up the hill?"
It gave her a feeling of pain to see the sudden blaze of light on his dark, swarthy face. What a neglected, friendless life he must have led, that a kind word or two could have such power over him!
"Me!" he said. "Do you mean it? I'd like to carry your books and things, and I could take the broom and sweep along before you. Might I go? Oh, I haven't got to hurry. My work is all done."