When he met Robin, he'd
understand--and while Dale ate ravenously and talked to his father
between mouthfuls, she planned how she would bring Robin to supper the
very next time she came home, despite her vow that she would never let
Robin see how humble and small her home was.
After supper Beryl helped her mother clear away and Dale brought out his
"plaything" which was what he laughingly called the contrivance of
strings and spools and little wooden wheels he had made and which he and
his father "played with" each evening. Beryl had often wondered why Dale
seemed to care so much about it; why he spent hours and hours drawing
and figuring on bits of paper. Of course it amused the father, who,
during the day, cut the spools into tiny wheels, with a sharp
jack-knife; but it must be stupid for Dale to spend all of his evenings
over the silly thing. Beryl often lounged on the back of his chair and
listened to discover whether there was any part of the game she might
like.
Tonight Dale's interest seemed forced.
"If I could just find out what's needed _here_--" he growled, touching
the delicate contrivance.
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