By the white bowl Grandmother took your chin in one hand and lifted your face.
"My, what a dirty boy!"
With the rough wet rag she mopped the dirt away—grime of your long sea-voyage—while you squinted your eyes and pursed up your lips to keep out the soap. You clung to her apron for support in your mute agony.
"YOU CLUNG TO HER APRON FOR SUPPORT IN YOUR MUTE AGONY"
"Grand—" you managed to sputter ere the wet rag smothered you. Warily you waited till the cloth went higher, to your puckered eyes. Then, "Grand-m-m—" But that was all, for with a trail of suds the rag swept down again, and as the half-word slipped out, the soap slipped in. So Grandmother dug and dug till she came to the pink stratum of your cheeks, and then it was wipe, wipe, wipe, till the stratum shone. Then it was your hands' turn, while Grandmother listened to your belated tale, and last of all she kissed you above and gave you a little spank below, and you were done.
All through dinner your mind was on the table—not on the middle of it, where the meat was, but on the end of it.
"Harry, why don't you eat your bread?"
"Why, I don't feel for bread, Grandmother," you explained, looking at the end of the table. "I just feel for pie."
It was hard when you were back home again, for there it was mostly bread, and no sugar pies at all, and very little cake.