eyes. The little lady was flushed and vivid-looking. They both nodded
beamingly at her. At the other side of the steps, in the bright light of
the electric lamp was a small bundle, between two scarlet fire buckets.
It was Jimmy.

His hands were very dirty, his neck and back looked uncomfortably
twisted. She touched him gently and he wakened with a start.

"Jimmy, what's to do? You ought to be in bed," she said.

"I'm waiting for dad," he explained, blinking and stretching. "My, it
does make your neck stiff."

"Come with me, and I'll put you in bed."

"Must wait for dad," he protested.

"You'll be too tired to play to-morrow. You'll be dropping asleep all
day."

"Then he'll go to sleep on the floor, and have a bad back," he said.

"Whyever does he go to sleep on the floor?"

"Because he's too tired, like I was. Only if I take my boots off and
kick him--very kindly, I have to kick--he wakes up and he's cross and
then he gets into bed."

He stared at her, frowning, as though trying to understand or else to
explain this queerness of his father's. Next minute he found himself