When little Tony had wakened from his nap, and had been washed and brushed and fed, and made fresh in a clean frock, his mother brought him to his father.
“Is this Tony Robeson?” Anthony asked soberly. Tony considered for a moment, then shook his head.
“I’s ve fire chief,” he said, with polite stubbornness.
“Have your men put away the hook-and-ladder cart?”
“No, favver.”
“Are they going to do it?”
“I didn’t tell vem to.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t want to.”
“Listen, son,” said Anthony. “I could make the fire chief put away the cart. I’m stronger than he is, you know. I could make him walk out to where it lies in the garden, and I could make his hands pick it up and carry it into the house, and then it would be done.—Don’t you think I could?”