Mr. Horton, standing on the front step, opened the screen door and put in his head.
“Taxi’s coming!” he announced. “Ready, Olive? I have the bag right here. Come, son.”
Sunny Boy was thrilled at the thought of riding in that orange dragon of an automobile. Mother and Daddy had friends who often took them motoring pleasant afternoons, and sometimes Sunny Boy went with them. But every one knows that is different from having a gay colored car roll up to your front door and wait especially for you.
The young man who drove the car opened the door with a flourish and helped Mrs. Horton in. Then he turned to lift Sunny Boy, but that young person hung back.
“I could ride with you—up front,” he suggested.
“Oh, you might tumble out, going around the corner,” cried Mrs. Horton.
Daddy, who had been locking the front door, came down to them, carrying the black leather bag that was to go with Sunny Boy and Mother.
“Do you know,” said Daddy slowly, “I think the bag will have to go in the front seat, Sunny? I wouldn’t like to put it down on Mother’s pretty new patent leather pumps. Sometime when we have no baggage you shall ride with the chauffeur.”
So Sunny Boy climbed in and sat between Mother and Daddy, and the chauffeur just touched his wheel and they shot off up the street. Indeed they started so suddenly that Sunny Boy went over backward and laughed so hard that he quite forgot to be disappointed because he could not sit on the front seat.
“What’s in the bag, Mother?” he asked, as they rolled along through the streets.