Miss Billy | Page 7

my calling you that? You
see I want SOME one, and there isn't any one now. You are the nearest
I've got. Maybe you've forgotten, but I'm named for you. Walter
Neilson was my father, you know. My Aunt Ella has just died.
"Would you mind very much if I came to live with you? That is,
between times--I'm going to college, of course, and after that I'm going
to be--well, I haven't decided that part yet. I think I'll consult you. You
may have some preference, you know. You can be thinking it up until I
come.
"There! Maybe I ought not to have said that, for perhaps you won't
want me to come. I AM noisy, I'll own, but not so I think you'll mind it
much unless some of you have 'nerves' or a 'heart.' You see, Miss Letty
and Miss Ann--they're Mr. Harding's sisters, and Mr. Harding is our
lawyer, and he will write to you. Well, where was I? Oh, I know--on
Miss Letty's nerves. And, say, do you know, that is where I do get--on
Miss Letty's nerves. I do, truly. You see, Mr. Harding very kindly
suggested that I live with them, but, mercy! Miss Letty's nerves won't
let you walk except on tiptoe, and Miss Ann's heart won't let you speak
except in whispers. All the chairs and tables have worn little sockets in
the carpets, and it's a crime to move them. There isn't a window-shade
in the house that isn't pulled down EXACTLY to the middle sash,
except where the sun shines, and those are pulled way down. Imagine
me and Spunk living there! Oh, by the way, you don't mind my
bringing Spunk, do you? I hope you don't, for I couldn't live without

Spunk, and he couldn't live with out me.
"Please let me hear from you very soon. I don't mind if you telegraph;
and just 'come' would be all you'd have to say. Then I'd get ready right
away and let you know what train to meet me on. And, oh, say--if
you'll wear a pink in your buttonhole I will, too. Then we'll know each
other. My address is just 'Hampden Falls.'
"Your awfully homesick namesake,
"BILLY HENSHAW NEILSON"
For one long minute there was a blank silence about the Henshaw
dinner-table; then the eldest brother, looking anxiously from one man
to the other, stammered:
"W-well?"
"Great Scott!" breathed Bertram.
Cyril said nothing, but his lips were white with their tense pressure
against each other.
There was another pause, and again William broke it anxiously.
"Boys, this isn't helping me out any! What's to be done?"
"'Done'!" flamed Cyril. "Surely, you aren't thinking for a moment of
LETTING that child come here, William!"
Bertram chuckled.
"He WOULD liven things up, Cyril; wouldn't he? Such nice smooth
floors you've got up-stairs to trundle little tin carts across!"
"Tin nonsense!" retorted Cyril. "Don't be silly, Bertram. That letter
wasn't written by a baby. He'd be much more likely to make himself at
home with your paint box, or with some of William's junk."

"Oh, I say," expostulated William, "we'll HAVE to keep him out of
those things, you know."
Cyril pushed back his chair from the table.
"'We'll have to keep him out'! William, you can't be in earnest! You
aren't going to let that boy come here," he cried.
"But what can I do?" faltered the man.
"Do? Say 'no,' of course. As if we wanted a boy to bring up!"
"But I must do something. I--I'm all he's got. He says so."
"Good heavens! Well, send him to boarding-school, then, or to the
penitentiary; anywhere but here!"
"Shucks! Let the kid come," laughed Bertram. "Poor little homesick
devil! What's the use? I'll take him in. How old is he, anyhow?"
William frowned, and mused aloud slowly.
"Why, I don't know. He must be--er--why, boys, he's no child," broke
off the man suddenly. "Walter himself died seventeen or eighteen years
ago, not more than a year or two after he was married. That child must
be somewhere around eighteen years old!"
"And only think how Cyril WAS worrying about those tin carts,"
laughed Bertram. "Never mind--eight or eighteen--let him come. If he's
that age, he won't bother much."
"And this--er--'Spunk'; do you take him, too? But probably he doesn't
bother, either," murmured Cyril, with smooth sarcasm.
"Gorry! I forgot Spunk," acknowledged Bertram. "Say, what in time is
Spunk, do you suppose?"
"Dog, maybe," suggested William.

"Well, whatever he is, you will kindly keep Spunk down-stairs," said
Cyril with decision. "The boy, I suppose I shall have to endure; but the
dog--!"
"Hm-m; well, judging by his name," murmured Bertram, apologetically,
"it may be just possible that Spunk won't be easily controlled. But
maybe he isn't a dog, anyhow. He--er--sounds