The truth of which Mr Twitter proceeded to illustrate by covering his son with a lather that caused him quickly to resemble whipped cream.
“Oh! hold on, father, it’s getting into my eyes.”
“My boy—dear Sammy—forgive me. I didn’t quite know what I was doing. Never mind. Down you go again, Sammy—head and all. That’s it. Now, that’s enough; out you come.”
“Oh! father,” said the poor boy, while invisible tears trickled over his wet face, as he stepped out of the bath, “it’s so good of you to forgive me so freely.”
“Forgive you, my son! forgive! why, I’d—I’d—” He could say no more, but suddenly clasped Sammy to his heart, thereby rendering his face and person soap-suddy and wet to a ridiculous extent.
Unclasping his arms and stepping back, he looked down at himself.
“You dirty boy! what d’you mean by it?”
“It’s your own fault, daddy,” replied Sam, with a hysterical laugh, as he enveloped himself in a towel.
A knock at the bath-room door here produced dead silence.
“Please, sir,” said a female voice, “the lady in the cab sends to say that she’s gettin’ impatient.”