Luckily there were no boys this end of the block. They were quite grown up, or little children. But there were enough below to torment the poor lad. In the summer when the charcoal man went by they would sing out:
"John Robert Charles, what did you have for breakfast?" and the refrain would be, "Charcoal."
"What did you have for dinner?" "Charcoal."
"How do you keep so clean?" "Charcoal."
Early this autumn the boy had made a protest. Day after day he said it over to himself until he thought he had sufficient courage.
"Mother, why don't you call me just Charles, as my father does?"
His mother's surprise almost withered him. "Because," when she had found her breath, "John is after my father, who was an excellent man, and Robert was for the only brother I ever had, and Charles for your grandfather Reed. If you grow up as good as any of them you'll have no occasion to find fault with your name."
Yet boys at school called him Bob, and he really did enjoy it. He went to a very nice, select school where there were only twenty boys.
He had made quite an acquaintance with the Dean girls. He could play house, and they had such delightful books to read.
"And the party must be some time next week. Thursday, mother thought, would be convenient. I should give the invitations out on Monday," Josie said. "And, oh, try to coax Jim."