One evening as Charlie sat by the vine-clad window with his fireless pipe in his hand, the old colonel’s eyes fell full upon his own, and rested there.
“Charl—,” he said with an effort, and his delighted nurse hastened to the bedside and bowed his best ear. There was an unsuccessful effort or two, and then he whispered, smiling with sweet sadness:
“We did’nt trade.”
The truth in this case was a secondary matter to Charlie; the main point was to give a pleasing answer. So he nodded his head decidedly, as who should say, “Oh, Yes, we did; it was a bona-fide swap.” But when he saw the smile vanish, he tried the other expedient, and shook his head with still more vigor to signify that they had not so much as approached a bargain; and the smile returned.
Charlie wanted to see the vine recognized. He stepped backward to the window with a broad smile, shook the foliage, nodded, and looked smart.
“I know,” said the colonel, with beaming eyes; “many weeks.”
The next day he said:
“Charl—”
The best ear went down.