impressionable clay.”
Herbie wondered vaguely what constituted molding at Mr. Gauss's hands, inasmuch as he had never spoken to the principal or even seen him at a distance of less than a hundred feet until today. But Mrs. Bookbinder had no such reservations.
“I'm sure the boy owes a great deal to you, Mr. Gauss,” she said, “and I only hope when he grows up he'll appreciate it.”
“Why, that's extremely gracious of you. I was just telling Mr. Bookbinder that my one sorrow in the case of these outstanding children is that I lose touch with them for two months each summer. Oh, for the common run of children it doesn't make much difference. But you know from your industrial experience, Mr. Bookbinder, that a fine, delicate piece of machinery, neglected for two months, can really be injured.”
The father, who saw where the talk was leading, did not wish to assent to anything the principal proposed, but he was cornered. “That much is true,” he said unwillingly.
“I'm glad we agree. And that is how I happened to hit on the idea of Camp Manitou.”
The hour had struck. Herbie began to sidle from the scene.
“Must you go, Herbie?” said the principal at once, training his smile at the boy. “I should think you would be interested.”
“Stay where you are,” commanded the father.
Herbie stopped and leaned against the piano, looking unhappy.
But his fears were needless. Mr. Gauss launched into his “sales talk” without ever mentioning the boy's call at his office. Once or twice he nodded at Herbie with the cunning geniality of a fellow-plotter; that was all. He expanded on a double-barreled theme: the delights of Camp Manitou and the peculiar worthiness of the Bookbinder children. The boy was grateful to the schoolmaster for keeping mum, but he was also struck by his readiness to bypass the truth—a horrid sin, according to Mr. Gauss's own speeches in assembly. As the camp owner went on with his plea, passing booklets of photographs to the parents and to the boy, he fell into a manner of speech and conduct that seemed more and more familiar to Herbert. The boy had uncles and aunts who came periodically to wheedle favors from his father. So poor Mr. Gauss talked on and on, unaware that his shiny face and roly-poly form were sinking, in the lad's view, from his height of office to the depressed level inhabited by needy relatives.
“Herbie tells me,” the mother put in after a while, “that Lucille Glass is enrolled in your camp.”
“Ah, yes, Lucille. Lovely little child. Perfect example of a Manitou camper.”
“And Lennie Krieger, too—is that right?” asked Jacob Bookbinder.
“Krieger?” said Mr. Gauss doubtfully. He reached for a notebook.
“Lives here on Homer Avenue, two blocks down. A tall boy, twelve or so. He's the son of my business partner.”
“Of course. Lennie. I'm glad you mentioned that,” said the principal, dropping his voice to a confidential tone. “I have a question to ask you. Do you feel—I must ask your honest opinion—that Lennie Krieger is the type I have described to you as a Manitou camper? The kind of boy you'd like to see side by side with a lad of Herbie's caliber?”
Mr. Bookbinder grumbled, “Nothing wrong with him that I know of.”
The principal unscrewed his fountain pen and made a careful note in his book, saying, “Thank you. In that case perhaps—I say, perhaps—Lennie may be coming to Manitou after all.” And he privately decided to call next evening upon the parents of the boy, of whose existence he had not been aware until a few minutes ago.
There were seven other children in the neighborhood deserving the honor of a summer at Camp Manitou, at the price of three hundred dollars per child, so Mr. Gauss did not tarry. His visit had clearly had some effect. Mr. and Mrs. Bookbinder were taken with the flattery of the principal's presence, the charm of the pictures of cabins by a mountain lake, and the descriptions in the booklet of the