“No; to Tiffany’s to have my ears pierced.” At this he burst into another laugh.
“Why, pa, I’m almost ten, and old enough for earrings,” added Daisy, tossing her head and making
the pretty ringlets fly about in all directions.
“Well, well, darling; then we will go to Tiffany’s.”
“And afterwards, pa, we’ll get Flywheel Bob.”
“Oh! hush, my love. You cannot have him.”
“Him! Is he a little boy, pa?” Mr. Goodman did not answer. “Well, whatever Flywheel Bob is,” she continued, “I want a new plaything. This doll Rover broke all by accident. And I scolded you hard; didn’t I, Rover?” Here she patted the dog’s head. “But, pa, he sha’n’t hurt Flywheel Bob.”
“Well, well, we’ll drive out in half an hour,” said her parent, who would fain have got the notion of Flywheel Bob out of his child’s head, yet feared it might stick there.
“In half an hour,” repeated Daisy, feeling the tips of her ears, while her eyes sparkled like the jewels which were shortly to adorn them. Then, going to the bell, she gave a ring. Mr. Goodman, of course, imagined that it was to order the carriage. But when the domestic appeared, Daisy quietly said: “Jane, I wish the boned turkey brought here.” No use to protest—to tell the child that this room was his own private business room, and not the place for luncheon.
In the boned turkey was brought, despite Mr. Goodman’s sighs. But it was well-nigh more than he could endure when presently, after carving off three slices, she bade Rover sit up and beg.