YOU looked fine; simply fine! And well you might, for had you not just gone through with the ordeal of an extra bath—a process which even when regular and weekly nagged you almost beyond endurance, and now as a superfluity certainly ought to bring recompense. It seemed to you that if a boy went swimming summers, during the season intervening a good scrubbing as far as half-way down his neck should answer all purposes.
With your face shining like a red apple, with your hair slickly brushed—by mother, and your fresh waist neatly adjusted—by mother, and your Sunday jacket and knickerbockers faithfully brushed—by mother, and your shoes blacked and harmoniously buttoned—by mother again, there you stood between mother’s knees while she coaxed into an expansive knot your blue polka-dotted tie.
Then she turned you about for inspection.
“Well, well!” commented father, in acknowledgment of your effect.
Mother settled your hat delicately upon your smooth crown.
“Now, be a good boy,” she cautioned. “Be polite, and don’t be rough in your play, and remember to say good-night to Helen and her mama, and don’t act greedy when the things to eat are passed.”
She kissed you, and father kissed you, and escorted to the front door out you strutted.
“Be a good boy!” called mother after you.
You decorously yodeled for Hen; Hen, arrayed, like you, in purple and fine linen, decorously made exit and joined you; and decorously the two of you walked side by side up the street, bound for the “Daner party.”
Along the way, restrained by your feeling of spick-and-spanness from customary gambolings, you and Hen sought relief in a preliminary review of the prospective menu.