William frowned, and mused aloud slowly. “Why, I don't know. He must be--er--why, boys, he's no child,” broke off the man suddenly. “Walter himself died seventeen or eighteen years ago, not more than a year or two after he was married. That child must be somewhere around eighteen years old!” “And only think how Cyril WAS worrying about those tin carts,” laughed Bertram. “Never mind--eight or eighteen--let him come. If he's that age, he won't bother much.” “And this--er--'Spunk'; do you take him, too? But probably he doesn't bother, either,” murmured Cyril, with smooth sarcasm. “Gorry! I forgot Spunk,” acknowledged Bertram. “Say, what in time is Spunk, do you suppose?” “Dog, maybe,” suggested William. “Well, whatever he is, you will kindly keep Spunk down-stairs,” said Cyril with decision. “The boy, I suppose I shall have to endure; but the dog--!” “Hm-m; well, judging by his name,” murmured Bertram, apologetically, “it may be just possible that Spunk won't be easily controlled. But maybe he isn't a dog, anyhow. He--er--sounds something like a parrot to me.” Cyril rose to his feet abruptly. He had eaten almost no dinner. “Very well,” he said coldly. “But please remember that I hold you responsible, Bertram. Whether it's a dog, or a parrot, or--or a monkey, I shall expect you to keep Spunk down-stairs. This adopting into the family an unknown boy seems to me very absurd from beginning to end. But if you and William will have it so, of course I've nothing to say. Fortunately my rooms are at the TOP of the house,” he finished, as he turned and left the dining-room. For a moment there was silence. The brows of the younger man were uplifted quizzically. “I'm afraid Cyril is bothered,” murmured William then, in a troubled voice. Bertram's face changed. Stern lines came to his boyish mouth. “He is always bothered--with anything, lately.” The elder man sighed. “I know, but with his talent--” “'Talent'! Great Scott!” cut in Bertram. “Half the world has talent of one sort or another; but that doesn't necessarily make them unable to live with any one else! Really, Will, it's becoming serious--about Cyril. He's getting to be, for all the world, like those finicky old maids that that young namesake of yours wrote about. He'll make us whisper and walk on tiptoe yet!” The other smiled. “Don't you worry. You aren't in any danger of being kept too quiet, young man.” “No thanks to Cyril, then,” retorted Bertram. “Anyhow, that's one reason why I was for taking the kid--to mellow up Cyril. He needs it all right.” “But I had to take him, Bert,” argued the elder brother, his face growing anxious again. “But Heaven only knows what I'm going to do with him when I get him. What shall I say to him, anyway? How shall I write? I don't know how to get up a letter of that sort!” “Why not take him at his word and telegraph? I fancy you won't have to say 'come' but once before you see him. He doesn't seem to be a bashful youth.”