"Y—yes."
"Don't you know you are not allowed to wear your Sunday shoes to school?"
"Y—yes."
"Then why, please?"
"Because I hate calf-skin shoes, I hate 'em, I hate 'em. Big ugly clumsy clod-hoppery stogies! I think they are abominable. I'll bet they were the thorn in the flesh Peter talked about—or was it Paul? Anyhow, I can't think of any worse kind of a thorn. I think they are downright wicked. And I won't wear them—unless I have to," she added hastily, noting the military firmness in the General's face.
"I am sorry, Zee, since you hate them so terribly. They are not pretty, I know. But if you wear the Sunday ones to school, they wear out so fast, and they are so expensive. And, oh, my dearest, we could never afford it on father's salary, you know that. But I will compromise with you, for I don't like to make you wear things you despise. If you will wear these out, when they are gone, your next pair of school shoes shall be, not patent leather, but much finer and softer than these—oh, much finer."
"Oh, that is just ducky of you, General," said Zee gratefully. "But mayn't I wear the others—just this afternoon?"
"No, absolutely not. You were very deceitful and disobedient, slipping in to change them on the sly, that way, and you shall not wear the others by any means."
But the next morning, as Doris stood at the window watching the girls as they walked away, she noted a curious bulging under the side of Zee's sweater.
What could it be, she wondered? Then like a flash, she ran up the stairs. The Sunday shoes were gone—also the calf-skin ones. Grimly she waited until Zee came home.