Masie had reached the floor and was running toward him with her hands extended, Fudge springing in front.

The old painter caught her up in his arms, lifting her off her little feet, and as quickly setting her down, his eyes snapping, his whole face aglow.  The joy bottled up in the child seemed to have swept through him like an electric current.

“And wasn’t it a beautiful party?” she burst out when she found her breath.  “And wasn’t Uncle Felix good to make it all for me?” She had moved to O’Day’s side and had slipped her hand in his.

“Yes, of course, it was,” roared Ganger.  “Why, old Sam Dogger was so excited when he went to bed, he didn’t sleep a wink all night.  He’s thought of nothing else but parties ever since.  He’s getting up one for you.  Told me so this morning.”

The child’s eyes dilated.

“What sort of a party?”

“Oh, a dandy party, but it’s not going to be at night.  It’s going to be in the daytime.  All out in the blessed sunshine and under the trees.  And everybody is going to be invited—­everybody who belongs.”

The child’s brow clouded.  “Everybody who belongs?  Why, can’t Uncle Felix come?”

“Certainly, he can come.  He ‘belongs.’”

“And—­Fudge?”

“What, that little devil of a dog?  Yes, he can come, if he promises to behave himself,” and he shook his head at the culprit.  “And all the chippies can come.  Lots of ’em, and perhaps a couple of robins, if they haven’t gone away south.  And there’s a big Newfoundland dog, or was before he was stolen, that could have swallowed this gentleman down at one gulp, but he won’t now.  He ‘belonged’ and always has.  And, of course, you ‘belong’ and so does Sam and so do I. We go out every other week and sit under these very same trees.  Sam paints the branches wiggling down in the water, and I do leaky boats.  When I get the picture home, I put Jane Hoggson fishin’ in the stern.

Masie rolled her eyes.

“And you don’t take her with you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“’Cause she don’t ‘belong.’  Great difference whether you belong or not.  Jane Hoggson couldn’t ‘belong’ if she was to be born all over again.”

O’Day now joined in.  He had been watching Masie, noting the lights and shadows which swept over her face as the old painter chattered away.  He always welcomed any plan for giving her pleasure, and was blessing Ganger in his heart for providing the diversion.

“And where is all this to take place, Mr. Ganger?” Felix asked at last.

“Up on the Bronx.  A place you know nothing of and wouldn’t believe a word about if I should tell you—­not ’til you see it yourself.  It’s as full of birds and butterflies as England along the Thames, or one of those ducky little streams out of Paris.  And it only costs five cents to get there and five cents to get back.  And you won’t be more than a few hours away from your shop.  Fine, I tell you, you’ll never forget it.”