“Here,” says Poppy, frisking out a stiff white butcher’s apron that his pa had used on an earlier meat-market job. “Try it on and see how it fits.”
Old Butch let out his neck at the curiosity.
“You mean,” says he, “that you want me to wear it?”
“Sure thing.”
“But what’s it fur?”
“To keep you from getting your pants dirty. And here’s a nice little white cap to go with it.”
That was more than Butch could stand.
“I come here to make pickles,” says he stiffly, “an’ not to be made a monkey of in a dunce cap.”
“I thought you’d like the cap,” says Poppy. “For all professional pickle makers wear white caps. So let’s put it on, anyway, and see how it fits.”
“I feel like a fool,” grunted Butch, squinting with shame at the reflection of himself in the kitchen mirror.