Lute bent forward to inspect the hiatus between trousers and waistcoat. “By time!” he exclaimed, “I told Sim Eldredge they was too short in the waist. He said if they was any longer they'd wrinkle under the arms. I don't know what to do. If I hist 'em up they'll be what the fellers call high-water, won't them?”
“Humph! I'd ruther have 'em high-water than shoal in the middle of the channel. You'll have to average up somehow. I ought to have known better than to trust you to buy anything all by yourself.”
She condescended to approve of my appearance when, an hour later, I came downstairs, garbed in my best.
“Humph!” she vouchsafed, after a long look. “I declare! I'd hardly know you, Roscoe. You look more as you used to when you fust come here to live.”
“Thanks,” I answered, drily. “I'm glad to see that you respect old age. This suit is venerable enough to command that kind of respect.”
“'Tain't the suit, though that's all right enough. It's the way you wear it, I guess. You look BETTER than you used to. You're browned up and broadened out and it's real becomin'. But,” she added, with characteristic caution, “you must remember that good looks don't count for much. My father used to say to me that handsome is that handsome does. Not that I was so homely I'd scare the crows, but he didn't want me to be vain. Now don't fall overboard in THAT suit, will you?”
Mother noticed my unwonted grandeur when I went in to say good-night to her.
“Why, Roscoe!” she exclaimed. “You must consider this strawberry festival very important.”
“Why, Mother?”
“Because you've taken such pains to dress for it.”