Bunty paused for a moment after his exertions to regain his breath, then, still gripping a hammer in his small fist, he straddled the draw-bar, and slid down the pilot to the floor.
Grumpy burst into a guffaw.
Bunty blinked at him reprovingly, and turned to his father.
"I's been fixin' the 'iger-'ed," he announced gravely.
Regan surveyed his son grimly. "Fixing what?" he demanded.
"The 'iger-'ed," Bunty repeated. Then reproachfully: "Don't oo know w'at a 'iger-'ed is?"
"Oh," said Regan, "the nigger-head, eh? Well, I guess there's another nigger-head will get some fixing when your mother sees you, son."
He picked the lad up in his arms, and Bunty nestled confidingly, with one arm around his father's neck. His tired little head sank down on the paternal shoulder, and before they had reached the gates Bunty was sound asleep.
In the days that followed, Bunty found it no easy matter to elude his mother's vigilance; but that was only the beginning of his troubles. The shop gates were always shut, and the latch was beyond his reach. Once he had found them open, and had marched boldly through, to find his way barred by the only man of whom he stood in awe. Grumpy had curtly ordered him away, and Bunty had taken to his heels and run until his small body was breathless.
The roundhouse was no better. Old John would have none of him, and Bunty marveled at the change.
