“Call your partner, No. 8, an’ let’s see how the two of you look together.”
During fully five minutes Benny and Fluff were forced to walk here or there in order that the men might have good opportunity for seeing them in all possible lights, and then Mr. Downey suggested that the lad show himself in civilian’s garb.
No. 8 obeyed very readily, almost glad to escape from that atmosphere of praise, and when he next appeared it was in a suit of clothes such as any well-dressed boy ten or twelve years of age would be expected to display.
A blue blouse with a rolling collar, sailor-fashion, knickerbockers, stockings, and a jacket of the same color, the clothing trimmed neatly with white braid, made of him, as Dick Sawyer said, “a perfect little gentleman.”
“You look best in whichever you happen to have on when you heave in sight,” Sam Hardy said admiringly. “Ain’t it goin’ to be quite a come-down to get into your old pea-jacket an’ sou’wester?”
“I’ll feel more like myself then,” Benny said emphatically. “It don’t seem right for me to be dressed up so fine, and most likely it ain’t.”
“There’s nothin’ too good for you, accordin’ to my way of thinkin’, No. 8, so don’t get such queer ideas into your head. How does young Mr. Foster feel about it?”
“Do you know, I believe he’s proud of his blanket? I tried to take it off before we came down, and he growled terribly.”
“It’ll be a good thing for him when the weather is biting cold, an’ you’d better let him wear it a spell.”