The next morning he came again, but mournfully and slow. There were tear stains on the little round cheeks.
“Why, son, what had happened?” said Grant, his abundant sympathies instantly responding.
“Teddy’s spoiled,” the child sobbed. “I set him—on the side of—the pig pen, and he fell’d in, and the big pig et him—ate him—up. He didn’t ‘zactly eat him up, either—just kind of chewed him, like.”
“Well that certainly is too bad. But then, you’re going to eat the pig some day, so that will square it, won’t it?”
“I guess it will,” said the boy, brightening. “I never thought of that.”
“But we must have a teddy for Prince. See, he is looking around, waiting for it.” Grant folded his coat into the shape of a dummy and set it up on the hames, and all went merrily again.
That afternoon, which was Saturday, the boy came thoughtfully and with an air of much importance. Delving into a pocket he produced an envelope, somewhat crumpled in transit. It was addressed, “The Man on the Hill.”
Grant tore it open eagerly and read this note:
“DEAR MAN-ON-THE-HILL,—That is the name Wilson calls you, so perhaps you will let me use it, too. Frank is to be home to-morrow, and will you come and have dinner with us at six? My father and mother will be here, and possibly one or two others. You had a clash with my men-folk once, but you will find them ready enough to make allowance for, even if they fail to understand, your point of view. Do come.—ZEN.
“P.S.—It just occurs to me that your associates in your colonization scheme may want to claim your time on Sunday. If any of them come out, bring them along. Our table is an extension one, and its capacity has never yet been exhausted.”