"That's capital!" returned Andrew, gently rubbing his hands. "There's nothing nicer than baked mutton and a batter pudden. Jacky, brush your hair well: it's as rough as bristles."
"I had to use a handful of soda to get the dye out," said Mrs. Brumm. "Soda's awful stuff for making the hair rough."
Andrew slipped out to the Honey Fair barber, who did an extensive business on Sunday morning, to be shaved. When he returned he went up to wash and dress, and finally uncovered a deal box where he was accustomed to find his clean shirt. With all Mrs. Brumm's faults she had neat ways. The shirt was not there.
"Bell, where's my clean shirt?" he called out from the top of the stairs.
Mrs. Bell Brumm had been listening for the words and received them with satisfaction. She nodded, winked, and went through a little pantomime of ecstasy, to the intense delight of the children, who were in the secret, and nodded and winked with her. "Clean shirt?" she called back again, as if not understanding.
"My Sunday shirt ain't here."
"You haven't got no Sunday shirt to-day."
Andrew Brumm descended the stairs in consternation. "No Sunday shirt!" he repeated.
"No shirt, nor no collar, nor no handkercher," coolly affirmed Mrs. Brumm. "There ain't none ironed. They be all in the wet and the rough, wrapped up in an old towel. Jacky and Polly haven't nothing either."
Brumm stared considerably. "Why, what's the meaning of that?"