"That's bad," Burns asserted. "The quicker they broke, the
less objection I'd have to 'em. It's a wonder the modern
child has a trace of resource or inventiveness left in him.
Teach him to construct, not to destroy, then you've done
something for him."

"Isn't he rather young for tools?" Mrs. Lessing was turning
over a small saw in her hands, feeling its sharp teeth with a
premonitory finger.

"There are gauze and bandages in the office." He laughed at
her expression as she laid down the saw.

"You won't object to that box of tin soldiers?" she asked.

"Decidedly. You don't want to spoil him at the start. For a
boy who never had a toy in his life he's acquired enough now
to turn his head. Come away, Mrs. Lessing - flee temptation.
Come, Bobby boy." And Burns led the way.

Bob, astride of a marvellous rocking-horse taller than
himself, was like to weep. Mrs. Lessing went to him. He
whispered something in her ear. She came back to Burns.

"Doctor Burns," said she, "every boy has a rocking-horse.
He's just the age to enjoy it. Surely it won't hazard his
inventiveness: it will develop it. He'll ride all over the
country, as you do in the Green Imp."

"What's the price?"