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Spunk?

      “We don't know.” Bertram's lips twitched.

      “You don't know! What do you mean?”

      “Well, Will thinks it's a dog, and I believe Cyril is anticipating a monkey. I myself am backing it for a parrot.”

      “Boys, what have you done!” groaned Kate, falling back in her chair. “What have you done!”

      To William her words were like an electric shock stirring him to instant action. He sprang abruptly to his feet.

      “Well, whatever we've done, we've done it,” he declared sternly; “and now we must do the rest—and do it well, too. He's the son of my boyhood's dearest friend, and he shall be made welcome. Now to business! Bertram, you said you'd take him in. Did you mean it?”

      Bertram sobered instantly, and came erect in his chair. William did not often speak like this; but when he did—

      “Yes, Will. He shall have the little bedroom at the end of the hall. I never used the room much, anyhow, and what few duds I have there shall be cleared out to-morrow.”

      “Good! Now there are some other little details to arrange, then I'll go down-stairs and tell Pete and Dong Ling. And, please to understand, we're going to make this lad welcome—welcome, I say!”

      “Yes, sir,” said Bertram. Neither Kate nor Cyril spoke.

CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

GETTING READY FOR BILLY

       Table of Contents

      The Henshaw household was early astir on the day of Billy's expected arrival, and preparations for the guest's comfort were well under way before breakfast. The center of activity was in the little room at the end of the hall on the second floor; though, as Bertram said, the whole Strata felt the “upheaval.”

      By breakfast time Bertram with the avowed intention of giving “the little chap half a show,” had the room cleared for action; and after that the whole house was called upon for contributions toward the room's adornment. And most generously did most of the house respond. Even Dong Ling slippered up-stairs and presented a weird Chinese banner which he said he was “velly much glad” to give. As to Pete—Pete was in his element. Pete loved boys. Had he not served them nearly all his life? Incidentally it may be mentioned that he did not care for girls.

      Only Cyril held himself aloof. But that he was not oblivious of the proceedings below him was evidenced by the somber bass that floated down from his piano strings. Cyril always played according to the mood that was on him; and when Bertram heard this morning the rhythmic beats of mournfulness, he chuckled and said to William:

      “That's Chopin's Funeral March. Evidently Cy thinks this is the death knell to all his hopes of future peace and happiness.”

      “Dear me! I wish Cyril would take some interest,” grieved William.

      “Oh, he takes interest all right,” laughed Bertram, meaningly. “He takes INTEREST!”

      “I know, but—Bertram,” broke off the elder man, anxiously, from his perch on the stepladder, “would you put the rifle over this window, or the fishing-rod?”

      “Why, I don't think it makes much difference, so long as they're somewhere,” answered Bertram. “And there are these Indian clubs and the swords to be disposed of, you know.”

      “Yes; and it's going to look fine; don't you think?” exulted William. “And you know for the wall-space between the windows I'm going to bring down that case of mine, of spiders.”

      Bertram raised his hands in mock surprise.

      “Here—down here! You're going to trust any of those precious treasures of yours down here!”

      William frowned.

      “Nonsense, Bertram, don't be silly! They'll be safe enough. Besides, they're old, anyhow. I was on spiders years ago—when I was Billy's age, in fact. I thought he'd like them here. You know boys always like such things.”

      “Oh, 'twasn't Billy I was worrying about,” retorted Bertram. “It was you—and the spiders.”

      “Not much you worry about me—or anything else,” replied William, good-humoredly. “There! how does that look?” he finished, as he carefully picked his way down the stepladder.

      “Fine!—er—only rather warlike, maybe, with the guns and that riotous confusion of knives and scimitars over the chiffonier. But then, maybe you're intending Billy for a soldier; eh?”

      “Do you know? I AM getting interested in that boy,” beamed William, with some excitement. “What kind of things do you suppose he does like?”

      “There's no telling. Maybe he's a sissy chap, and will howl at your guns and spiders. Perhaps he'll prefer autumn leaves and worsted mottoes for decoration.”

      “Not much he will,” contested the other. “No son of Walter Neilson's could be a sissy. Neilson was the best half-back in ten years at Harvard, and he was always in for everything going that was worth while. 'Autumn leaves and worsted mottoes' indeed! Bah!”

      “All right; but there's still a dark horse in the case, you know. We mustn't forget—Spunk.”

      The elder man stirred uneasily.

      “Bert, what do you suppose that creature is? You don't think Cyril can be right, and that it's a—monkey?”

      “'You never can tell,'” quoted Bertram, merrily. “Of course there ARE other things. If it were you, now, we'd only have to hunt up the special thing you happened to be collecting at the time, and that would be it: a snake, a lizard, a toad, or maybe a butterfly. You know you were always lugging those things home when you were his age.”

      “Yes, I know,” sighed William. “But I can't think it's anything like that,” he finished, as he turned away.

      There was very little done in the Beacon Street house that day but to “get ready for Billy.” In the kitchen Dong Ling cooked. Everywhere else, except in Cyril's domain, Pete dusted and swept and “puttered” to his heart's content. William did not go to the office at all that day, and Bertram did not touch his brushes. Only Cyril attended to his usual work: practising for a coming concert, and correcting the proofs of his new book, “Music in Russia.”

      At ten minutes before five William, anxious-eyed and nervous, found himself at the North Station. Then, and not till then, did he draw a long breath of relief.

      “There! I think everything's ready,” he sighed to himself. “At last!”

      He wore no pink in his buttonhole. There was no need that he should accede to that silly request, he told himself. He had only to look for a youth of perhaps eighteen years, who would be alone, a little frightened, possibly, and who would have a pink in his buttonhole, and probably a dog on a leash.

      As he waited, the man was conscious of a curious warmth at his heart. It was his namesake, Walter Neilson's boy, that he had come to meet; a homesick, lonely orphan who had appealed to him—to him, out of all the world. Long years ago in his own arms there had been laid a tiny bundle of flannel holding a precious little red, puckered face. But in a month's time the little face had turned cold and waxen, and the hopes that the white flannel bundle had carried had died with the baby boy;—and that baby would have been a lad grown by this time, if he had lived—a lad not far from the age of this Billy who was coming to-day, reflected the man. And the warmth in his heart deepened and glowed the more as he stood waiting at the

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