“Quit a-talking eyes at me that way, Aunt Sally Benton! I don’t like it.”
“Oh! you don’t, eh? Well, what’d you disgrace yourselves this way for, if ’twasn’t to make folks stare? Where’s your clothes?”
“I don’t know.”
“Very well, then I’ll help you to remember.”
“I won’t be whipped! I’ll tell my mother!” shrieked Ned, retreating toward the closed door of the building.
“Won’t be whipped, old Aunt Sally!” added Luis, clasping his leader; whereupon the customary scuffle ensued; for, no matter what their business in hand, personal contact always insured a slight passage at arms. At present, this diverted their thoughts from what might be in store at the will of their mutual enemy, and it came with appalling suddenness. Each small boy was lifted, bidden to shut his eyes and mouth, then plunged downward into a barrel of some cold slippery stuff. Here he was soused vigorously up and down, until every portion of his skin was smeared with the stick mess; after which he was placed on his feet and once more commanded:
“Now, son, just you stand there and dreen a spell. Lucky I made that barrel of soft soap last week. It’s just the stuff to take this paint off, and what drips from you to the old adobe floor won’t hurt. Pasqual’s a master hand at scrubbin’, and I’ll give him the job of you and the floor both. Reckon you’ll wish you hadn’t ever seen paint pots time he gets through. Now––where’s your clothes?”
Ned was silent, but Luis “guessed they’s under a tree.”
“Well, son, Garcia, knowing it better than guessing ’bout now. Me and Santa Claus is sort of partners, and he’s due here soon. ’Twon’t take me a jerk of a lamb’s tail to write and tell him how things stand at Sobrante, and whose stockings’d better have switches ’stead of goodies in ’em. Hear me? Where’s your clothes?”