"In the short time at our disposal," he began loftily, "it will be impossible to point out each particular article and give its history from the beginning; but somewhere you will find four round white stones, which--"

"Er--yes, we know all about those white stones," interrupted William, "and you'll please let me talk about my own things myself!" And he beamed benevolently on the wondering-eyed girl at Bertram's side.

"But there are so many!" breathed Billy.

"All the more chance then," smiled William, "that somewhere among them you'll find something to interest you. Now these Chinese ceramics, and these bronzes--maybe you'd like those," he suggested. And with a resigned sigh and an exaggerated air of submission, Bertram stepped back and gave way to his brother.

"And there are these miniatures, and these j.a.panese porcelains. Or perhaps you'd like stamps, or theatre programs better," William finished anxiously.

Billy did not reply. She was turning round and round, her eyes wide and amazed. Suddenly she pounced on a beautifully decorated teapot, and held it up in admiring hands.

"Oh, what a pretty teapot! And what a cute little plate it sets in!" she cried.

The collector fairly bubbled over with joy.

"That's a Lowestoft--a real Lowestoft!" he crowed. "Not that hard-paste stuff from the Orient that's CALLED Lowestoft, but the real thing--English, you know. And that's the tray that goes with it, too. Wonderful--how I got them both! You know they 'most always get separated. I paid a cool hundred for them, anyhow."

"A hundred dollars for a teapot!" gasped Billy.

"Yes; and here's a nice little piece of l.u.s.tre-ware. Pretty--isn't it?

And there's a fine bit of black basalt. And--"

"Er--Will," interposed Bertram, meekly.

"Oh, and here's a Castleford," cried William, paying no attention to the interruption. "Marked, too; see? 'D. D. & Co., Castleford.' You know there isn't much of that ware marked. This is a beauty, too, I think.

You see this pitted surface--they made that with tiny little points set into the inner side of the mold. The design stands out fine on this.

It's one of the best I ever saw. And, oh--"

"Er--William," interposed Bertram again, a little louder this time. "May I just say--"

"And did you notice this 'Old Blue'?" hurried on William, eagerly. "Lid sets down in, you see--that's older than the kind where it sets over the top. Now here's one--"

"William," almost shouted Bertram, "DINNER IS READY! Pete has sounded the gong twice already!"

"Eh? Oh, sure enough--sure enough," acknowledged William, with a regretful glance at his treasures. "Well, we must go, we must go."

"But I haven't seen your stratum at all," demurred Billy to her guide, as they went down the stairway.

"Then there's something left for to-morrow," promised Bertram; "but you must remember, I haven't got any beautiful 'Old Blues' and 'black basalts,' to say nothing of stamps and baggage tags. But I'll make you some tea--some real tea--and that's more than William has done, with all his hundred and one teapots!"

CHAPTER XI

BERTRAM HAS VISITORS

s.p.u.n.k did not change his name; but that was perhaps the only thing that did not meet with some sort of change during the weeks that immediately followed Billy's arrival. Given a house, five men, and an ironbound routine of life, and it is scarcely necessary to say that the advent of a somewhat fussy elderly woman, an impulsive young girl, and a very-much-alive small cat will make some difference. As to s.p.u.n.k's name--it was not Mrs. Stetson's fault that even that was left undisturbed.

Mrs. Stetson early became acquainted with s.p.u.n.k. She was introduced to him, indeed, on the night of her arrival--though fortunately not at table: William had seen to it that s.p.u.n.k did not appear at dinner, though to accomplish this the man had been obliged to face the amazed and grieved indignation of the kitten's mistress.

"But I don't see how any one CAN object to a nice clean little cat at the table," Billy had remonstrated tearfully.

"I know; but--er--they do, sometimes," William had stammered; "and this is one of the times. Aunt Hannah would never stand for it--never!"

"Oh, but she doesn't know s.p.u.n.k," Billy had observed then, hopefully.

"You just wait until she knows him."

Mrs. Stetson began to "know" s.p.u.n.k the next day. The immediate source of her knowledge was the discovery that s.p.u.n.k had found her ball of black knitting yarn, and had delightedly captured it. Not that he was content to let it remain where it was--indeed, no. He rolled it down the stairs, batted it through the hall to the drawing-room, and then proceeded to 'cha.s.se' with it in and out among the legs of various chairs and tables, ending in one grand whirl that wound the yarn round and round his small body, and keeled him over half upon his back. There he blissfully went to sleep.

Billy found him after a gleeful following of the slender woollen trail.

Mrs. Stetson was with her--but she was not gleeful.

"Oh, Aunt Hannah, Aunt Hannah," gurgled Billy, "isn't he just too cute for anything?"

Aunt Hannah shook her head.

"I must confess I don't see it," she declared. "My dear, just look at that hopeless snarl!"

"Oh, but it isn't hopeless at all," laughed Billy. "It's like one of those strings they unwind at parties with a present at the end of it.

And s.p.u.n.k is the present," she added, when she had extricated the small gray cat. "And you shall hold him," she finished, graciously entrusting the sleepy kitten to Mrs. Stetson's unwilling arms.

"But, I--it--I can't--Billy! I don't like that name," blurted out the indignant little lady with as much warmth as she ever allowed herself to show. "It must be changed to--to 'Thomas.'"

"Changed? s.p.u.n.k's name changed?" demanded Billy, in a horrified voice.

"Why, Aunt Hannah, it can't be changed; it's HIS, you know." Then she laughed merrily. "'Thomas,' indeed! Why, you old dear!--just suppose I should ask YOU to change your name! Now _I_ like 'Helen Clarabella' lots better than 'Hannah,' but I'm not going to ask you to change that--and I'm going to love you just as well, even if you are 'Hannah'--see if I don't! And you'll love s.p.u.n.k, too, I'm sure you will. Now watch me find the end of this snarl!" And she danced over to the dumbfounded little lady in the big chair, gave her an affectionate kiss, and then attacked the tangled ma.s.s of black with skilful fingers.

"But, I--you--oh, my grief and conscience!" finished the little woman whose name was not Helen Clarabella.--"Oh, my grief and conscience,"

according to Bertram, was Aunt Hannah's deadliest swear-word.

In Aunt Hannah's black silk lap s.p.u.n.k stretched luxuriously, and blinked sleepy eyes; then with a long purr of content he curled himself for another nap--still s.p.u.n.k.

It was some time after luncheon that day that Bertram heard a knock at his studio door. Bertram was busy. His particular pet "Face of a Girl"

was to be submitted soon to the judges of a forthcoming Art Exhibition, and it was not yet finished. He was trying to make up now for the many hours lost during the last few days; and even Bertram, at times, did not like interruptions. His model had gone, but he was still working rapidly when the knock came. His tone was not quite cordial when he answered.

"Well?"

"It's I--s.p.u.n.k and I. May we come in?" called a confident voice.

Bertram said a sharp word behind his teeth--but he opened the door.

"Of course! I was--painting," he announced.

"How lovely! And I'll watch you. Oh, my--what a pretty room!"

"I'm glad you like it."

"Indeed I do; I like it ever so much. I shall stay here lots, I know."