Four children came rushing out into the night, staid Alice trying to remember the dignity expected of a young lady of fourteen, Theodore, frail and owlish, peering through his spectacles, Kermit, slender and fair with legs that seemed too slim to support his wiry body, and after them four-year-old Archie, stumbling and falling flat on the cold floor.
“Pick him up!” directed Roosevelt. “You see I have my hands full. And hold the door and let me in before I drop this slippery thing.”
“What in the world is it, Father?” asked Alice, hurrying to prop the door wide for him.
“Can’t you see?” demanded Kermit. “It’s fishes.” He scuttled behind his father.
“Move all those things,” Roosevelt ordered, pointing to the hall table. “Let me set this down.”
Alice hastily removed the card tray and candlesticks from the table, setting them carefully on the floor. The fish continued their giddy pirouette and small Archie pressed his button of a nose against the cold glass.
“They dancing,” he exclaimed delightedly. “Father, fishes dancing!”
“Silly! Fishes can’t dance,” declared Kermit. “They’ve got no feet. Have they got feet, Father?”
“No, they haven’t any feet. They’re just excited,” said his father, hanging up his hat and overcoat.
There was a scurry of feet on the stairs and seven-year-old Ethel came flying down followed at a quieter pace by her mother.