“Do you fink dat apron’s dyty? Well, I don’t. Tell you watsh de matter wif it—I fink de white’s gropped off.”
“Go into the kitchen!” Mrs. Burton commanded, and both boys departed with heavy pouts where pretty lips should have been. Half an hour later their uncle, who had come home early with the laudable desire of meeting some of his wife’s acquaintances, found his nephew Toddy upon the scaffolding of an unfinished residence half-way between his own residence and the railway station. Remembering the story, dear to all makers of school reading-books, of the boy whose sailor father saw him perched upon the mainyard, Mr. Burton stood beneath the scaffolding and shouted to Toddie:
“JUMP!” SHOUTED MR. BURTON
“Jump!”
“I can’t,” screamed Toddie.
“Jump!” shouted Mr. Burton, with increased energy.
“Tell you I can’t,” repeated Toddie. “Wezh playin’ Tower of Babel, an’ hazh had our talks made different like de folks did den, an’ when I tells Budge to bring buicksh, he only buingzh mortar, an’ when I wantsh mortar he buings buicksh. An’ den we talksh like you an’ Aunt Alice did yestuday at de table.”
“Yes,” said Budge, appearing from the inside of the building with an armful of blocks. “Just listen.” And the young man chattered for a moment or two in a dialect never even dimly hinted at except by a convention of monkeys.
Mr. Burton cautiously climbed the ladder, brought down one boy at a time, kissed them both and shook them soundly, after which the three wended homeward, the boys having sawdust on every portion of their clothes not already soiled by dirt, and most of Mrs. Burton’s callers meeting the party en route.