Charles started as if he had been struck.
"I'm dead tired and I want him to wipe my dishes. I haven't been off my feet since five o'clock this morning only at meal-time. Then he must go to the store."
"I'll wait until then."
Mrs. Reed looked sharply at them. Had Charles done something that had escaped her all-sided vision and was his father going to take him to task? Or was there a conspiracy?
"What do you want him for?" she inquired sharply.
"Oh, I thought we'd walk down the street."
"Smoking a cigar, of course," as Mr. Reed took one out of his case. "It certainly won't be your fault if the child hasn't every bad tendency under the sun. I've done my best. And you know smoking is a vile habit."
Mr. Reed had long ago learned the wisdom of silence, which was even better than a soft answer.
Charles put on a pinafore that hung in the kitchen closet. He could dry dishes beautifully.
"You've been cutting behind on stages," said his mother. "Some one has told your father."