"What in the name of thunder have you been doing to your hair?" demanded his father, looking up from his pipe and paper.
"Combing it," replied Chester, coldly.
"With axle grease?" inquired Jessup senior, genially.
"And it does look so nice when it's dry and wavy," put in his mother.
Chester emitted a faint groan.
"Oh, Ma, you never seem to realize that I'm grown up," he protested. "Wavy hair!" He groaned again.
"Well," remarked the father, "I suppose it's better that way than not combed at all. Seems to me that last summer you didn't care much whether it was combed, or cut either, for that matter."
"A woman has come into his life," explained his twenty-two year-old sister, from behind her novel.
"You just be careful who you go callin' a woman," exclaimed Chester, turning on her, with some warmth.
"Don't you consider Mildred Wrigley a woman?" asked Hilda, mildly.