“When does it begin?” asked Mrs. Mason, who had just entered the room in time to hear the story.
“Tomorrow, in time for dinner; Miles said last May that this might come off, if he could get a certain bungalow. But he said he wouldn’t know ahead of time, so he’d have to wire.”
The boy smiled in satisfaction at his ingenious explanation; it certainly was not a bad extemporaneous one. He was trying to decide where to locate the party, when the very question was put by his father.
“Where is it to be?”
“Atlantic City!” he replied without the slightest hesitation.
“Can I help you pack?” suggested his mother.
“No, thanks,” said Harold, hastily, rather alarmed at the idea. His plan necessitated a complete disguise, and he had no desire for his mother to catch a glimpse of it.
“Going in the car?” asked his father.
“Sure, Mike!”
Once in his room he bolted the door and unlocked a big wooden chest which was beneath his bed. Then he drew out a bedraggled grey wig, with a beard and mustache to match, a complete make-up outfit, a mussed shirt and celluloid collar, a red necktie, a suit with baggy trousers, and a pair of old man’s shoes.