"Bosworth!" hissed his father, with a conscious glance at his feet and legs. "What the devil amuses you?"
For answer his son strode over and clutched him by the arm, turning him around so that he faced the silent, immovable group.
"See that man back there without trousers? The bare-legged, bare-footed chap? Well, dad, you've got on his pants."
"Good God!" gasped Mr. Van Pycke, nervously hunting for the bridge of his nose with his glasses. "Is the poor fellow naked?"
"Half naked, dad, that's all. Look closely!"
"Sh! Demmit all, boy, he'd knock me down! And the ladies! What the devil does he mean, undressing in this bare-faced—"
"Bare-legged, dad." With a fresh laugh he leaned forward and chucked the nearest lady under the chin. As she was standing directly in front of Van Pycke, senior, that gentleman, in some haste, moved back to avoid the retort physical.
"Bosworth! How—how dare you?" he gasped.
"Can't you see, dad? This is the richest thing I've ever known. Don't be afraid of 'em. They're wax figures, every one of them!"
Mr. Van Pycke started. Then he stared.