Briscoe's work-basket by long shreds of her zephyr,
and ran clamoring for permission to hold the gun.
Mrs. Briscoe saw him through the open door and instantly protested: "Come
away, Archie!" Then to her husband, "You men are always killing somebody
with an unloaded gun. Come away, Archie!"
"Nonsense, Gladys!" Briscoe remonstrated. "Let the child see the rifle.
There is not a shell in the whole rack."
She noticed her husband not at all. "Come away, Archie," she besought the
little man, staring spellbound with his big blue eyes. He had scant care
for the authority of "Gad-ish," as Gladys loved for him lispingly to call
her. Only when she began to plead that she had no one to help her with
her flowers, to carry the pots for her, did he wrench himself from the
contemplation of the flashing steel mechanism that had for him such
wonderful fascination and lend his flaccid baby muscles to the fiction of
help. He began zealously to toil to and fro, carrying the smallest pots
wherever she bade him.
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