Langshaw put his hand into his pocket.

“No, I can’t give you the dollar this minute, little girl; father has only a ten-dollar bill.  I’ll get it changed right after dinner.  Isn’t dinner ’most ready, Clytie?”

“We’ll go down just as soon as I get Baby in bed,” said the mother peacefully.  “I don’t see why George isn’t here.  Goodness!  There he is now,” she added as a tremendous slam of the front door announced the fact.  The next moment a small boy, roguishly blue-eyed and yellow-haired like Baby, with an extremely dirty face and a gray sweater half covered with mud, hurled himself into the room, surreptitiously tickling one of Baby’s bare feet and pulling Mary’s curls on his way to greet his father.

“What have you been doing to get so dirty?”

“Playing cops and robbers,” said the boy, serenely.  His dimples appeared suddenly; his eyes lit up.  “Say, mother”—­he turned to her irresolutely—­“shall I tell father now?”

“Not until after dinner,” returned the mother inexorably.  “Go and make yourself clean!”

“May I put on my white silk tie?” George’s white tie was the banner of festivity.

“Yes.”

“You rouse my curiosity.  This seems to be a great occasion,” said Langshaw.

“Oh, it is!” agreed the mother happily.  She murmured in his ear as they went downstairs:  “I hope you’ll show that you’re pleased, dear.  You know sometimes when you really are pleased you don’t show it at once—­and George has been trying so hard.  If you’ll only show that you’re pleased—­”

“Yes—­all right!” returned the husband a little impatiently.  Clytie had a sensitive consideration for her son’s feelings which struck him at times as exaggerated.  He thought of the delightful secret back in his own mind; there was no reason for talking any more about the rod until he bought it; he would manage to replace the dollar abstracted from the reserve fund.

If he gave absent answers during the meal Clytie seemed to be preoccupied also.  Little Mary, who sat by him, tucked her hand into his as she prattled.

“Now, George!” said his mother at last suddenly when the rice pudding had been finished.  George rose, clean and red-cheeked, looking more than ever like a large edition of Baby, in spite of his jacket and knickerbockers, as he stepped over to his father with a new dignity and handed him a folded sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” asked Langshaw genially opening it.  He read aloud the words within, written laboriously in a round, boyish hand: 

     To George Brander Langshaw, from father. 
       You Oh me five dolars.

Reseived paiment.

“Hello!  Hello!  What does this mean?” asked Langshaw slowly, with an unpleasant startled sensation that any such sum in connection with George was out of all reason.

“It means a bill for you from me!” announced George.  His cheeks grew redder, his blue eyes looked squarely at his father.  “It’s for this!” He pulled from his pocket a school report card divided into tiny ruled squares, filled with figures for half its length, and flung it down proudly on the table before his parent.