’TWAS the day of the picnic—the Baptist picnic. You yourself were not, by family persuasion, a member of that denomination, but the Schmidts, next door, were, and by the grace of Hen, your crony, you were enabled to gain admittance, upon occasion, into the Baptist ’bus.
The ’bus was not scandalized. You had been in it before, as Methodist, Congregationalist, Unitarian—what not. So had Hen. Only a few little girls were shocked, and gazed at you disdainfully.
“You ain’t a Baptist!” they accused.
“Neither’s Blanche Davis!” you retorted, carrying the debate into the enemy’s country. “I guess I’ve got as much right here as she has!”
“I came with Lucy Barrett,” informed Blanche, primly.
“An’ I come with Hen Schmidt. His father’s a deacon, too!” you asserted.
“Oh, he ain’t—is he, Mr. Jones? He ain’t—is he?” appealed the little girls, shrilly.
Mr. Jones, beaming with long-suffering, Sunday-school-superintendent good humor, obligingly halted.
“Henry Schmidt’s father ain’t a deacon, is he?”
“Yes, I believe so,” affirmed Mr. Jones, pleasantly.