"Blue, sir."
"That will hardly answer. You must go up to Belfast with me, and attend the funeral of Mr. Montague."
"I?"
"Yes; the family are all very much interested in you. You need a black suit, and we will get one here," added Mr. Barkesdale, as they entered the best clothing store on the street.
The finest suit that could be obtained was purchased; and it was supplemented, at other stores, with a cap, nice shoes, black kid gloves, and other furnishing goods. Bobtail protested against the gloves; he did not want any gloves in summer; never wore them, except in winter. But Mr. Barkesdale said he must wear them at the funeral, if he never did again.
"I don't see why I should be rigged up in all these togs, to go to the funeral of a man I never saw but twice in my life," said Bobtail, as they seated themselves in the buggy.
"You don't know much," laughed Mr. Barkesdale.
"I know I don't."
"You don't even know your own name."
"Everybody calls me Little Bobtail, and it wouldn't be strange if I forgot my own name," replied the boy.