The
Angel started slightly, but Freckles was immovable. Then, as if in
approval of his last performance, the big, overgrown baby wheeled until
he was more than three-quarters, almost full side, toward the camera,
straightened on his legs, squared his shoulders, stretched his neck full
height, drew in his chin and smirked his most pronounced smirk, directly
in the face of the lens.
Freckles' fingers closed on the bulb convulsively, and the Angel's
closed on his at the instant. Then she heaved a great sigh of relief and
lifted her hands to push back the damp, clustering hair from her face.
"How soon do you s'pose it will be finished?" came Freckles' strident
whisper.
For the first time the Angel looked at him. He was on his knees, leaning
forward, his eyes directed toward the bird, the perspiration running in
little streams down his red, mosquito-bitten face. His hat was awry, his
bright hair rampant, his breast heaving with excitement, while he yet
gripped the bulb with every ounce of strength in his body.
"Do you think we were for getting it?" he asked.
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