Upon receiving the five dollars he went directly to the Fashion Emporium, where the windows were filled with a heterogeneous assortment of gayly trimmed hats, marked enticingly with former and present prices.
"I want a hat kivered with flowers," he announced.
"Who for?" asked the young saleswoman.
"For my mother."
"How would you like a nice flower toque like this?" displaying a headgear of modest forget-me-nots.
"That's all faded. Ain't you got any red flowers? If you haven't, I know a store where they keep 'em."
The girl instantly sacrificed her ideas of what was fitting to the certainty of a sale, and quickly produced a hat of green foliage from which rose long-stemmed, nodding red poppies, "a creation marked down to three-ninety-eight," she informed him.
"That's the kind! I'll take it and a pair of white gloves, too, if you've got some big ones fer a dollar."
Bud hastened home with his purchases. His mother was quite overcome by the sight of such finery.
"I never thought to be dressed up again," she exclaimed on the eventful night, "No one has bought me nuthin' to wear sence your pa died. I feel like I was some one outen a book."