shipment of bulls...."

And Paula, slowly drawing away from her husband and rising to her
feet, could feel him slipping from her toward his tables of
statistics, bills of lading, and secretaries, foremen, and managers.

"Oh, Paula," Dick called, as she was fading through the doorway; "I've
christened the last boy--he's to be known as 'Oh Ho.' How do you like
it?"

Her reply began with a hint of forlornness that vanished with her
smile, as she warned:

"You _will_ play ducks and drakes with the house-boys' names."

"I never do it with pedigreed stock," he assured her with a solemnity
belied by the challenging twinkle in his eyes.

"I didn't mean that," was her retort. "I meant that you were
exhausting the possibilities of the language. Before long you'll have
to be calling them Oh Bel, Oh Hell, and Oh Go to Hell. Your 'Oh' was a
mistake. You should have started with 'Red.' Then you could have had
Red Bull, Red Horse, Red Dog, Red Frog, Red Fern--and, and all the
rest of the reds."

She mingled her laughter with his, as she vanished, and, the next
moment, the telegram before him, he was immersed in the details of the
shipment, at two hundred and fifty dollars each, F. O. B., of three
hundred registered yearling bulls to the beef ranges of Chile. Even
so, vaguely, with vague pleasure, he heard Paula sing her way back