“Well, we’ll let you off easy, for you look like a good sort.” Whistle-Breeches was grinning in an agony of apprehension. “Can you sing?” he was asked.
“A—a little.”
“Dance?”
“Even less.”
“Good, then you’ll do the Highland fling. Here, who’s got the mouth organ?”
“I have,” was the answer from the ranks of the hazers.
“Pipe up a Scotch hornpipe. Where’s that whitewash brush, and skirt. Off with his trousers.”
Before Donald could protest he was minus his lower garments and a short skirt of Scotch plaid had been slipped over his head, and fastened behind. Then a dangling whitewash brush was hung about his hips, in imitation of a Scottish costume, and while the mouth organ made doleful music Whistle-Breeches as well as he was able, which was not very good, did a dance.
“Livelier!” was the command, amid a gale of laughter, and livelier it was, until even the hazers were satisfied.
“Next,” called the Senator, like a barber.