THE GIANT CHILDREN
"They'll have to build his piano in here," he said. "Bring it in in pieces."
He hovered about amidst his preparations, a pensive dark little figure. If you could have seen him there he would have looked to you like a ten-inch man amidst common nursery things. A great rug— indeed it was a Turkey carpet—four hundred square feet of it, upon which young Redwood was soon to crawl, stretched to the grill-guarded electric radiator that was to warm the whole place. A man from Cossar's hung amidst scaffolding overhead, fixing the great frame that was to hold the transitory pictures. A blotting-paper book for plant specimens as big as a house door leant against the wall, and from it projected a gigantic stalk, a leaf edge or so and one flower of chickweed, all of that gigantic size that was soon to make Urshot famous throughout the botanical world. . . .
A sort of incredulity came to Redwood as he stood among these things.
"If it really is going on—" said Redwood, staring up to the remote ceiling.
From far away came a sound like the bellowing of a Mafficking bull, almost as if in answer.
"It's going on all right," said Redwood. "Evidently."
There followed resounding blows upon a table, followed by a vast crowing shout, "Gooloo! Boo-zoo! Bzz. . ."
"The best thing I can do," said Redwood, following out some divergent line of thought, "is to teach him myself."
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