“Here--down here! You're going to trust any of those precious treasures of yours down here!” William frowned. “Nonsense, Bertram, don't be silly! They'll be safe enough. Besides, they're old, anyhow. I was on spiders years ago--when I was Billy's age, in fact. I thought he'd like them here. You know boys always like such things.” “Oh, 'twasn't Billy I was worrying about,” retorted Bertram. “It was you--and the spiders.” “Not much you worry about me--or anything else,” replied William, good-humoredly. “There! how does that look?” he finished, as he carefully picked his way down the stepladder. “Fine!--er--only rather warlike, maybe, with the guns and that riotous confusion of knives and scimitars over the chiffonier. But then, maybe you're intending Billy for a soldier; eh?” “Do you know? I AM getting interested in that boy,” beamed William, with some excitement. “What kind of things do you suppose he does like?” “There's no telling. Maybe he's a sissy chap, and will howl at your guns and spiders. Perhaps he'll prefer autumn leaves and worsted mottoes for decoration.” “Not much he will,” contested the other. “No son of Walter Neilson's could be a sissy. Neilson was the best half-back in ten years at Harvard, and he was always in for everything going that was worth while. 'Autumn leaves and worsted mottoes' indeed! Bah!” “All right; but there's still a dark horse in the case, you know. We mustn't forget--Spunk.” The elder man stirred uneasily. “Bert, what do you suppose that creature is? You don't think Cyril can be right, and that it's a--monkey?” “'You never can tell,'” quoted Bertram, merrily. “Of course there ARE other things. If it were you, now, we'd only have to hunt up the special thing you happened to be collecting at the time, and that would be it: a snake, a lizard, a toad, or maybe a butterfly. You know you were always lugging those things home when you were his age.” “Yes, I know,” sighed William. “But I can't think it's anything like that,” he finished, as he turned away. There was very little done in the Beacon Street house that day but to “get ready for Billy.” In the kitchen Dong Ling cooked. Everywhere else, except in Cyril's domain, Pete dusted and swept and “puttered” to his heart's content. William did not go to the office at all that day, and Bertram did not touch his brushes. Only Cyril attended to his usual work: practising for a coming concert, and correcting the proofs of his new book, “Music in Russia.” At ten minutes before five William, anxious-eyed and nervous, found himself at the North Station. Then, and not till then, did he draw a long breath of relief. “There! I think everything's ready,” he sighed to himself. “At last!”