“Franky Polisson, how are you?”
He certainly had grown stout, and his light hair had retreated from the forehead. He wore glasses and was dressed in a suit of rusty black, with a high vest which gave him a ministerial look—a much more ministerial look than Berkeley had. His pantaloons presented that appearance which tailors describe as “kneeing out.” He sat down and we chatted for half an hour. The little girl had followed him into the room, and behind her came another three or four years her junior. The older one stood by his side, and he kept his arm around her, while he held the younger on his knee. They were both pretty, healthy-looking children, and kept their eyes fixed on “the man.”
“Are those your own kids?” I inquired presently.
“Yes, two of them. I have six, you know,” he answered, with a fond sigh: “five girls and one boy. The lasses are rather in the majority.”
“I heard you were quite a paterfamilias,” I said. “Won’t you come and kiss me, little girl?”
To this proposal the elder answered by burying her head bashfully in her father’s shoulder, while the smaller one simply opened her eyes wider and stared with more fixed intensity.
“Oh, by the way,” exclaimed Armstrong, “of course you’ll take tea with us and spend the evening. I wish I could offer to sleep you here; but the fact is, Mrs. Armstrong’s sister is with us for a few days, and the parents of one of my boys, who is sick, are also staying here; so that my guest chambers are full.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. “I couldn’t stay over night. I’ve got to be in New York in the morning, and must take the nine-o’clock train. But I’ll stay to supper and much obliged, if you are sure I sha’n’t take up too much of your time.”
“Not the least—not the least. This is a half holiday, and nothing in particular to do.” He bustled to the door and called out loudly, “Mother! Mother!”