"S'long," said John exuberantly. He had not only converted the scoffer, but he now found that the gang's plans for the evening no longer held a charm for him. What a peach of a time he would have at the Martins'!
Mrs. Fletcher greeted him with a suppressed smile as he came in.
"Mrs. Riley telephoned," she began reprovingly.
"Old sorehead!" he exclaimed. "Didn't hurt 'em any."
The maternal smile broadened. There was little sympathy between that quarrelsome lady and the other mothers of the street, anyway. "But you shouldn't torment little children like that, son. It isn't manly."
John murmured a few sheepish words under his breath, and asked tactfully if supper were ready.
"Not quite. Why?"
"Have you forgotten the party?"
She shook her head. "You'll find your blue serge suit all cleaned and waiting for you on your bed. But John, dear, do be a little more careful next time you eat candy. I had a terrible time with those spots."
After supper, he ran up to his room. There lay the suit, true evidence of his mother's thoughtful kindness. As he drew off his school knickerbockers, he noticed that his stockings had sagged, small-boy fashion, and formed a little roll of cloth just above his shoe tops. He pulled them up. How on earth had all that mud gotten there? In a moment he was at the head of the stairs, shouting, "Mother, Mother, Moth-a-a-a-r! Where are some clean stockings?" and went off to her room in search of them. His boots, too, were dusty and scratched; how long was it since he had blackened them?