“Well, I’m certain to catch it, all right. So long, Don.”
“So long, Al. Let’s go down town, after we’ve dressed.”
“All right.”
Thus the fight resulted in amity; but Don was dreadfully humiliated when he had to face the Little Mother in all that mess. He took off his shoes on the porch and humbly made his way up stairs to knock at Judith’s door.
“I—I’ve fallen down in the mud,” he called to her. “May I put on my best suit?”
Miss Eliot had been a witness of the entire scrimmage from her window, and had even overheard the words that had preceded and provoked the fight. She had decided not to interfere, but now she answered in a frigid voice through the closed door:
“No, Donald. I cannot have your best suit ruined.”
“But what shall I do, Cousin Judith?”
“You must go to bed until the mud on your clothes dries and they can be properly cleaned.”
Donald stood silently in the hall, his face flushed red with humiliation. He waited a long while for Cousin Judith to speak again, but she remained silent. At last he crept away to his own room, removed the disreputable garments and examined them dolefully. Coat, trousers, shirt, stockings—all were alike plastered with thick layers of fresh mud. It would take them a long time to dry, he feared.