Mrs. Tidd was ready for work before anybody else. She came to the door with a big apron on and a cloth tied around her hair, and the way she sailed into things was a caution. It seemed like she jumped right into the middle of that mess, and in a minute things were flying. Mr. Tidd came next with his book under his arm and stood in the stoop looking sort of puzzled. Mrs. Tidd straightened up, and then sat down on a packing-box.
“Jeffrey Tidd,” she said, not sharp and angry, but kind of patient and rebuking, “go right back into the house and take those clothes off. I knew if I didn’t stay right by you you’d get mixed up somehow. Will you tell me why in the world you changed from your second-best clothes to that Sunday black suit to move furniture?”
Mr. Tidd he looked pretty foolish and felt of his pants as though he couldn’t believe they were his best ones.
“That does beat all,” he said. “It does beat all creation, Libby. I wonder how these clothes come to be on me?”
“If you didn’t have ’em on under your others, which ain’t impossible, you must have changed into ’em.”
“My best suit!” he said to himself, shaking his head like you’ve seen the elephant do at the circus, first to one side and then to the other. “My best clothes!”
“Maybe I’d better come along and see you get into the right ones this time,” Mrs. Tidd suggested.
“I guess you don’t need to, Libby. I’ll take these off and hang ’em in the closet, and I’ll hang my second-best ones up, too. Then I’ll put on what’s left. That way I can’t go wrong.” He went off into the house, and Mrs. Tidd flew at the piles of stuff again.
Pretty soon the fat boy came around the side of the house with a quarter of a cherry pie in his hand and the juice dripping down faster than he could suck it off.
“Marcus,” his mother called, “take holt of this bundle of bed-slats and carry ’em up to the front room.”