The baby had finished his nightly sham battle against tub, water, and his father, and after he had eaten lustily we had tucked him drowsily into bed. Jim had wandered out into his newly planted garden and thither I followed him. The fact that I stumbled a little with fatigue made the sight of his quiet figure and broad back all the dearer to me. He was on his knees, digging gently with one finger into the soil; and I slumped down on the sand beside him, resting my elbows on my knees.
“Not a sprout yet,” he murmured in amused alarm without looking around. “What do you reckon has happened to the darned things?”
“My dear,” I said earnestly, “how would it do to leave them rather quietly in the soil—I mean the sand—for a few days so that they can make up their minds about this sprouting business. It’s really unfair of you to break into their privacy each evening to see if they’ve been doing their duty.”
“If they really would get down to business I’d leave them alone. There are gardens everywhere in Lakehurst and yet the baby is still waiting for that superchow we’ve planned for him.”