berance.
"That's it. Course. It's all writ in the reg'lations fer raisin' them
kids. Gee! you had me beat clear to death. Physic ev'ry Saturday
night. Blamed if this ain't Saturday--an' t'-morrer's Sunday. An' I
tho't you was sufferin' and needed physic. Say--"

But Bill, too, was watching the strangers with interested eyes. He was
paying no sort of attention to this wonderful discovery of his bright
friend.

CHAPTER XXI

SCIPIO MAKES PREPARATIONS

Scipio's impulses were, from his own point of view, entirely
practical. Whatever he did, he did with his whole heart. And if his
results somehow missed coming out as he intended them, it was scarcely
his fault. Rather was it the misfortune of being burdened with a
superfluous energy, supported by inadequate thought.

And he felt something of this as he sat in his living-room and glanced
round him at the unaccountable disorder that maintained. It was Sunday
morning, and all his spare time in his home on Saturday had been spent
in cleaning and scrubbing and putting straight, and yet--and yet--He
passed a stubby hand across his forehead, as though to brush aside the
vision of the confusion he beheld.

He knew everything was wrong, and a subconscious feeling told him that
he had no power to put things right. It was curious, too. Every
utensil, every stick of furniture, the floor, the stove, everything
had been scrubbed and garnished at a great expense of labor.
Everything had been carefully bestowed in the place which, to his
mind, seemed most suited for its disposal. Yet now, as he gazed about
him at the result, he knew that only a cleanly untidiness prevailed,
and he felt disheartened.

Look at the children's clean clothes, carefully folded with almost
painful exactness; yet they were like a pile of rags just thrown
together. And their unironed condition added to the illusion. Every
cooking-pot and pan had been cleaned and polished, yet, to his eyes,
the litter of them suggested one of the heaps of iron scraps out on
the dumps. How was it every piece of china looked forlornly suggestive
of a wanderer without a home? No, he did not know. He had done his
very best, and yet everything seemed to need just that magic touch to
give his home the requisite well-cared-for air.

He was disappointed, and his feelings were plainly to be perceived in
the regretful glance of his pale eyes. For some moments his optimistic
energy rose and prompted him to begin all over again