"What a fine coat, Jack!"
"Made by a tailor, Auntie Julie. Real pockets!"
"You don't say so!"
He nodded.
"Leggings too!" and he stuck up one leg at a sudden right angle on to the bed; a rash proceeding, but the boy has a straight little figure, and with a hop or two he kept his balance.
"My dear Jack, they are grand. How warm they must keep your legs!"
He shook his beaver hat.
"No. They only tickles. That's what they do."
There was a pause. His Aunt remembered the old peevish ways. She did not want to encourage him to discard his winter leggings, and was doubtful what to say. But in a moment more his eyes shone, and his face took that effulgent expression which some children have when they are resolved upon being good.
"—and as I can't shake off the tickle, I have to bear it," added the little gentleman.