two birds with one stone. He hadn't reckoned without his host. Gran'muvvie ceased to regret the extra blocks—that, alas! had not proved shady. Privately, she confessed a weakness for circuses. Eagerly they hurried from one end of the fence to the other, then retraced their steps, bent on a minute inspection of the "anamals," he in the delight of reviewing his acquaintance with the wonders that first had dawned on him the previous day, forgetful of his piscatory glories. Tony broke the silence of the homeward journey. "Is the circus wicked?" Gran'muvvie thought it wasn't. He guessed it wasn't, either. "It was just like Noah's Ark, and Noah's Ark was in the Bible."
Tony was preoccupied during luncheon. His father and mother had not proved fallow ground for the dropping of grains of information about the circus and its glories. Even gran'muvvie seemed more interested in the church picnic. Picnics were all very well in their way, but—Didn't they feel all queer in their insides about the monkeys and the bears and the tigers and the elephants? He didn't care to eat—not even his pie. Grown-ups were funny. He was sore afraid they were indifferent. Favver ate two pieces, and said muvvie ought to bake some for the picnic. Then they were going? Tony sat bolt upright. He had heard favver say no later than last night that it was a "bore." He didn't know what "bore" was, but favver had looked awful tired. Why was he smiling now and saying it would be like when he was a boy? Tony understood. Gran'muvvie wanted to go. There certainly were advantages about being favver's ma. You never had to coax for anything. If gran'muvvie wanted to go to the circus! She must be filled with that desire.
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"He gave Mrs. Jones, who did not like little boys, two"
The diplomat in embryo intuitively divined the first move in the game. She must be cajoled into a good humor, and advantage taken of the opportunity to present strong arguments in favor of the circus. While no politician—he knew the effects of a bribe. He must be "terrible nice" to her. But what form should this "terrible niceness" take? Something lovely to eat, of course! What kind of "sweeties" did she specially like? "Peppamints." He knew where one could buy six for a cent. But he didn't have a penny to his name. On Monday he had been introduced to a new brand of taffy which had appealed so to his saccharine passions that his weekly income was quickly spent. How could one squander three cents in three days! An advance from the family was impossible.
Tony carried his problem to the hammock. Saturday was pay-day—a whole day to wait. He was a man of action, and he wanted the matter decided—circus or no circus—before the day was over. Would it not be "terrible nice" when gran'muvvie wakened—she took little sleeps in the afternoon, same as he had done long ago before he went to kindergarten—to knock on the door and say: "It's on'y Tony. I'm come to 'muse you. Open your mouf and shut your eyes and I'll give you somefin' to make you wise." He could see her laughing real hard, and when she was through coughing he would climb into the bed and they would have a nice cozy chat.
Gran'muvvie should have all the sweeties. Well, he might take one. "Peppamints" were not much to his liking. They made you so thirsty, and then water made your mouth taste sort of hot and cold and queer. By and by there would be stories. "Once upon a time when Jack was about as old as a little boy I know—" Presently he would suggest a Sunday story. Noah's Ark would be the best selection, as it would then be but a step to the menagerie and the sawdust ring. A sigh, a tearful refusal of the last "peppamint." and—"I wisht I was Bertie Simmons. He's going to the circus"—the game was won. Tony's eyes grew dewy as he built his castles. He saw himself among the "anamals" and the clowns, peanuts in one hand, pop-corn in the other, filled to the brim with red lemonade.
Alas! since Wednesday he had faced the world a bankrupt.
An inspiration came to Tony and sent him hurrying to where the Lord's box stood. Reverently he lifted the little metal casket, heavy with self-sacrifice. He wasted no time in reflection on his former virtues, but, clasping the box in his hands, knelt to pray. He believed firmly in the efficacy of prayer, yet a momentary awe at the thing he had resolved to do laid hold upon him. How good the kind God had already been. Was he asking too much? Shamefacedly he
