“Oh, Dicky—Dicky!” called mamma softly from her room.
“I can't help it, mamma; Battles is slow and poky,” he fumed.
“Oh, no, dear,” said his mother; “Battles always gets you ready very swiftly, as well as nicely.”
Battles, a comfortable person, turned her round face with a smile toward the door. “And if you was more like your mamma, Master Dick, you'd be through with dressing, and make everything more pleasant to yourself and to every one else.”
“Well, I'm not in the least like mamma, Battles; I can't be.”
“No, indeed, you ain't. But you can try,” said Battles encouragingly.
“Why, Battles Whitney!” exclaimed Dick, whirling around on her. In astonishment, or any excitement, Dicky invariably gave her the whole name that he felt she ought to possess; “Mrs. Mara Battles” not being at all within his comprehension. “What an awful story!”
“Dicky—Dicky!” reproved Mrs. Whitney.
“Well, I can't help it, mamma.” Dick now escaped from Battles' hands altogether, and fled into the other room, the comfortable person following. “She said”—plunging up to her chair in great excitement—“that I could be like you.”
“I said you could try to be,” corrected Battles, smoothing down her apron.