“What for?”
“To find a pail.”
“What kind of a pail?”
“Any kind,” came the giggle, “just so long as it holds water. And the more water the better.”
“Hot dog!” says I, seeing fun ahead. “Are you going to give young fatty a shower bath?”
“Nothing else but.”
In a jiffy we had a pail. Not a skinny one, either, but a sort of robust, full-grown pail. Just fatty’s size. And filling it with cold water, we hoisted it up the stairs, for it was the leader’s scheme to do the “showering” act through an upper window.
So that we would be completely out of sight, we went clear up to the third floor. Nor did our window give us away with any squeaky stuff when he guardedly opened it.
“Reserved seats,” grinned the leader, rubbering over the sill.
Below us, the over-fed rooster was still doing his cock-a-doodle-doo stuff.