Bobby looked gloomily at the twinkling feet. They were too clean for him, those champagne-colored shoes. His own feet were disgustingly clean, too. Maybe he could rectify that with a judicious sprinkling of grape juice and then some clay sifted over them. He would try! Just then the stiff-backed spinsters, who turned out to be educators off on a botanical and geological spree, bore down on him and seating themselves on each side of him began:
“Little boy, are you enjoying your stay in the mountains?”
“Naw!”
“Ah, perhaps you are too idle and need occupation. Can you read and write?”
“Naw, I can’t read writin’ but I can read readin’.”
“You should have a task set you every day and then vacation would not hang so heavily on your hands. Some useful bit of information imparted to you would be edifying and useful.”
“Pshaw! That’s the way Cousin Lizzie talks. She’s our chapel roan an’ knows mo’n anybody ’bout Solomon an’ all his glory. She done learnt me a verse already onct this mornin’.”
“Ah, indeed! And can you repeat it to us?”
“Yes! I reckon ’twas the grape juice an’ victrola that made her choose this one: ‘Wine is a mucker an’ strong drink is rag time.’ I kin learn mos’ anything,” and Bobby hastened off to put the clay on his feet before the grape juice bath had time to dry.