On the Sunday morning following our late evening at Captain Grif’s we arose late, and consequently there was a scramble to get our breakfast over and the water heated for the bath. But in due time all the preliminaries were adjusted and Joey, stripped to the waist, knelt down beside the tub according to our usual custom, that I might first give his hair a thorough washing.
“You shouldn’t rub soap on it,” he demurred, as I turned to the soap dish. “Bell Brandon says so. She says that’s what makes my hair so brash and funny.”
“Brash, Joey?”
“That’s what she said.”
My jaw dropped. “How shall we get it clean, boy?”
“You make a lather. Shave off little chunks of soap and put ’em in a bottle and shake ’em up with water.”
These directions were followed, and both Joey and I were gratified with the result, but precious moments were consumed in the process.
After that Joey got water in his ear, and had to dance like a Piute, on one leg, and shake his head until it was dislodged. Next he sat on the side of the tub and tipped it sufficiently to deluge the floor with half the contents. This necessitated a scurry for the mop, and when I rather curtly declined the lad’s services, tears came to the brown eyes, his head drooped, and quite a quarter of an hour was expended in salving his feelings, submitting to bear hugs and listening to assurances that he had not meant to spill his bath water.
After that we got down to business, and I stood Joey in the tub, soaped him well, soused him with the sponge quickly, and rubbed him with a coarse towel until his small body was in a glow. As I was drying his feet, he said gently:
“I guess I’m a little boy yet, ain’t I, Mr. David? I guess it’s a good thing you know how to take care of me.”