“Now that our future voters have spoken,” said Win, “might a mere man say that he thinks this a suggestion worthy of a better cause? Also that a Day Nursery in the neighbourhood proposed for it would be a da-go nursery? Also to ask where you’d get costumes, and what you think your proceeds would amount to, if you hired so many costumes, decent enough to be seen at close range?”
“Oh, Win!” Mary’s distressed voice surprised Win, who lacked the clue to her eagerness not to have her mother’s suggestion wet-blanketed, “we can make most of the girls’ costumes, and it wouldn’t cost much to hire a few for the men.”
“Why, Winchester, I have a whole chestful of costumes among my boxes,” Mrs. Garden triumphed in her announcement.
“What may I be?” Mark asked meekly, having been listening and not talking.
“Mark Twain!” Mary almost shouted this happy discovery. “Mark Two, you know! You have thick hair; we’ll comb it out bushy, and powder it, and you can wear a white suit! That would be fine, for one thing! Too easy to guess, but some must be easy.”
“I thought little Jack Horner would fit me; I’ve pulled out a plum in Mr. Moulton—also a peach, in Mrs. Moulton, too,” Mark said sincerely.
“Perhaps Jacky was really a good boy, and was right when he said it, and that’s why he got the plum,” said Jane slyly.
Mark smiled at her. “I thought I ought to be Richard Third,” he said. “He was lame, wasn’t he? I could don a hump. He’s not an attractive gentleman.”
“Was he lame? He limped on the straight and narrow path, Mark,” commented Win. “But lame is too big a word for your tiny drop step, Mark!” protested Florimel.
“Drop step? That’s a new one, Florimel! Quick step, sick step, drop step—goes like a door step!” laughed Mark, who sensibly refused to be sensitive about his slight lameness.