Howard ate his breakfast alone, save Baby and Laura, its mother,
going about the room. Baby and mother alike insisted on feeding
him to death. Already dyspeptic pangs were setting in.
"Now ain't there something more I can-"
"Good heavens! No!" he cried in dismay. "I'm likely to die of
dyspepsia now. This honey and milk, and these delicious hot
biscuits-"
"I'm afraid it ain't much like the breakfasts you have in the city."
"Well, no, it ain't," he confessed. "But this is the kind a man needs
when he lives in the open air."
She sat down opposite him, with her elbows on the table, her chin
in her palm, her eyes full of shadows.
"I'd like to go to a city once. I never saw a town bigger'n
Lumberville. I've never seen a play, but I've read of 'em in the
magazines. It must be wonderful; they say they have wharves and
real ships coming up to the wharf, and people getting off and on.
How do they do it?"
"Oh, that's too long a story to tell. It's a lot of machinery and paint
and canvas. If I told you how it was done, you wouldn't enjoy it so
well when you come on and see it."
"Do you ever expect to see me in New York?"
"Why, yes. Why not? I expect Grant to come On and bring you all
some day, especially Tonikins here.
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