“Harold,” says his father, real interested, “aren't you feeling well these days?”
“No, Pa,” says Freckles, “I ain't felt so very well for quite a while.”
“Humph!” says his pa. “How does it come when you dressed yourself you put on your Sunday pants, and this is only Tuesday?”
Harold says he guesses he did that in his sleep, too, the same time he made the bed up.
His pa wants to know if that has ever happened to him before.
“Yes, sir,” says Freckles, “once I woke up in the moonlight right out on one of the top limbs of the big maple tree in the front yard, with my Sunday suit on.”
“Humph!” says his father. “And was your hair parted in the middle that time, too?”
Freckles, he blushes till you can hardly see his freckles, and feels of his hair. But he is so far in, now, that he can't get out. So he says:
“Yes, sir, every time I get taken that way, so I go around in my sleep, Pa, I find my hair has been parted in the middle, the next morning.”
“Uh-huh!” says his pa. “Let's see your ears.” And he pinched one of them while he was looking at it, and Freckles says, “Ouch!”