"Aw," growled Roger, "she was hangin' 'round."
"When you fell in?" demanded Mrs. Fairchild, eagerly. "Does she know that noble girl that saved you? Does she—does she, Roger?"
"Oh, I s'pose so," said Roger. "How should I know—come on, your ice cream'll get cold."
"But, Roger—"
"Say," said desperate Roger, whose chin was as smooth as his mother's, "if you ever buy me a razor, I wish you'd buy this kind—here in this window. Look at it. That's a dandy razor."
"A razor!" gasped Mrs. Fairchild. "What in the world—"
Roger gave a sigh of relief. His mother had been switched from that miserable Cinder Pond child. He chatted so freely about razors that his mother was far from guessing that he knew as little about them as she did.
"Fancy you wanting a razor!" commented his astonished mother.
"There's no great rush," admitted Roger, feeling his smooth cheek, "but I bet I'll get whiskers before you do."
"They'll be pink, like your eyebrows," retaliated Mrs. Fairchild, "but never mind; my eyebrows grew darker and yours will."