“Wait a minute. I’ll come up,” said Mother Martin with a half sigh as she started up the stairs, for there was much to do that day and she had hoped that the children could get themselves ready for their play.
“Where’s the comb?” she asked, as she entered the bathroom.
“Ted has it,” answered Jan. “He wouldn’t let me do anything for him.”
“She pulled too much,” her brother explained.
“I don’t see the comb,” remarked Mrs. Martin.
“It’s on my head—in my hair,” explained Ted further.
If you had been there to see him you would not have wondered that he was called “Curlytop” about as often as he was by his regular name. Jan had the same tightly curling hair as her brother, and the two children were often spoken of, even by strangers, as “The Curlytops.” The name just fitted them.
“No wonder I couldn’t see it,” said Mrs. Martin, as she gently brushed aside the hair on top of her little boy’s head and saw the comb caught in a tangle of curls. “It’s hidden like a hen’s egg in a nest of hay. Stand still now, and I’ll soon have you looking nice and tidy.”
If Ted’s mother pulled his hair he did not speak of it. Once or twice he caught his breath as though about to give a cry, but he held it back, and finally, nicely combed and brushed, he was ready to run downstairs with his sister.
“If their hair keeps on growing and curling,” said Mrs. Martin as she put the bathroom in order, “they’ll be losing more things in it than combs. Look after Baby William!” she called to Ted and Jan from the window, as she saw them down in the yard.