He took from the mantel his special pipe, the sweet instrument of his bedtime smoke, and filled it. He stretched his leather-legginged legs before him, and, as he pressed the tobacco down into the bowl with his little finger, he gazed thoughtfully at Wake sleeping on the bed. Poor little beggar! What a time he'd had with him! A rotten bad spell, and that after weeks and weeks of seeming so well. He supposed it was the raw chill of the weather they'd been having that had pulled him down. That and heaving Gran about. He was such a game youngster, he'd tackle anything.
Wake's hair, rather long for an eleven-year-old, lay in a dark halo around his face. With his beautifully marked eyebrows, his fringed white lids, and his breath coming flutteringly through his parted lips, his appearance was such that it hurt Renny to look at him. Dash it all—would he ever rear the kid? Well, thank goodness, he was a little devil sometimes! He leaned forward and gently took the little thin wrist in his, felt the pulse. Quieter, more even. Wake lifted his lids.
"Oh, hello, Renny!"
"Hello. What are you awake for?"
"I don't know. I think I'm better. I say, Renny, may I go to the horse show to-morrow?"
"Not if I know it. You'll wait and go with the other kids on Saturday."
"How much can I have to spend?"
"Spend! What on?"
"Why, you know. They take around ice cream and chocolates and lemonade."
"Twenty-five cents."
"Oh. But last year there was a fortune-telling place just outside the restaurant part. I'd like to get my fortune told."
"Better not. You might hear something bad."
"What do you mean bad? Like dying?"
Renny scowled. "Good Lord, no! Like getting a sound hiding."
"Oh . . . I was thinking I might hear of a fortune being left me."
