"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.
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