“I can't help it because I wear curls,” declared Arnold with angry shame.
“Who said you could? No need of getting mad.”
“Mamma and Aunt Flora and grandmamma won't let me have these old curls cut off,” said Arnold. “You needn't think I want to have curls like a girl, Johnny Trumbull.”
“Who said you did? And I know you don't like to wear those short stockings, either.”
“Like to!” Arnold gave a spiteful kick, first of one half-bared, dimpled leg, then of the other.
“First thing you know I'll steal mamma's or Aunt Flora's stockings and throw these in the furnace-I will. Do you s'pose a feller wants to wear these baby things? I guess not. Women are awful queer, Johnny Trumbull. My mamma and my aunt Flora are awful nice, but they are queer about some things.”
“Most women are queer,” agreed Johnny, “but my aunt Janet isn't as queer as some. Rather guess if she saw me with curls like a little girl she'd cut 'em off herself.”
“Wish she was my aunt,” said Arnold Carruth with a sigh. “A feller needs a woman like that till he's grown up. Do you s'pose she'd cut off my curls if I was to go to your house, Johnny?”
“I'm afraid she wouldn't think it was right unless your mother said she might. She has to be real careful about doing right, because my uncle Jonathan used to preach, you know.”
Arnold Carruth grinned savagely, as if he endured pain. “Well, I s'pose I'll have to stand the curls and little baby stockings awhile longer,” said he. “What was it you were going to tell me, Johnny?”