“I think I’ll go as a Cowboy,” said Willie, as he swaggered round.
“Oh, no; go as something nice,” said Eileen.
“Nice? What do you call nice?” asked Willie. “There’s nothing nicer than a cowboy. You ought to see ’em at the pictures.”
“Oh, no! Go as Lord Somebody, or Sir Someone, or somebody grand. You can be an old cowboy any day.”
“No, thanks, I don’t want to be any of your grand chaps. I might be a footballer, or a cricketer, or a stockman; but none of your grand men that wear silk and satin. Ugh! And I might be a Red Indian yet. Yes, that’s what I’ll be—a Red Indian,” he cried, excitedly. “Oh! it will be fun rigging it up. Let’s come and make a start at it now. I’ll have feathers all over my head, and I’ll get the loan of that dingo skin of your Mum’s, and—oh, it will be fun!”
“No, you won’t be a Red Indian,” cried Eileen. “No one will dance with you.”
“Dance with me?” echoed Willie. “I don’t want ’em to dance. I want to have some fun. I thought you were all wishing for fun, and now it’s coming you want to dress up in fine clothes. Ugh!”
“What about Little Lord Fauntleroy? Oh, Willie, you’d look pretty!”
“Little Lord Fauntleroy!” gasped Willie. “Ugh! Do you think I want to look pretty? Do you think a man wants to look pretty? Ugh!”
For the next week excitement and disorder held sway at “Gillong,” for there was so much trouble in choosing costumes.