“It’s a cinch,” came earnestly, “that I don’t want to fumble.”
“Then listen to this,” I laughed again, more eager to further make a monkey of fatty than to jump on him. “We catch old law-book and lock him up. Then, having drawn cuts, the short-straw fellow is the ‘she.’”
“‘She?’ What she?”
“The granddaughter.”
I had him puzzled.
“For example,” I went on, “we’ll suppose that you’re the ‘she.’ And having borrowed one of Ma Doane’s petticoats, we dress you up in it. Then, just before midnight the ‘granddaughter’ trips in. Kisses and hugs at the front door. ‘Ruthie, dearest, I’m so glad to see you—and did you have a pleasant journey, my love?’ Fatty is there, taking it all in. But gloom and disappointment for him. Do you catch on?”
“Jerry, you’re cuckoo.”
“Cuckoo, nothing,” I hung on, seeing the fun that we could have.
“Not me,” he held off.
“What are you scared of?”