"It will be a scramble to get ready, won't it, Mother?" commented the practical Mary.
"There certainly will be a lot to do," Mrs. McGregor agreed. "However, I guess we can manage if everybody will turn to."
"I'll help," announced Carl in a burst of magnanimousness. "I'll wash and iron all my own clothes."
"I'd like a peep at the shirt you washed and ironed," taunted Mary in derision.
"I fancy a peep would be enough," put in her mother, laughing. "No, son, your talent does not lie in washing or ironing. But you can take care of the youngsters while Mary and I do it. And, Mary, we'll have to get a bunch of fresh flowers for your best hat; those pink daisies are too faded to wear. We'll get a new hair ribbon, too. And I must have some other lace in the neck of my silk waist and——"
"Oh, if you're going to talk ribbon, artificial flowers, and all that rot I'm going over to Harlings," announced Carl, rising.
"Indeed you're not," objected his mother. "You're going to get out the blacking bottle and start cleaning and polishing the shoes. There'll be seven pairs to get ready and I want a fine shine on every one of them."
"But what's the use of doing it now? They'll get all dusty again before the day after to-morrow," Carl grumbled.
"Not if they're put away," came in even accents from his mother. "We'll just have to wear slippers, sneakers and things until Tuesday. I guess we can get along. We can't go leaving everything until the last minute or we shall be all up in a heap. We must begin directly to get things done. I shall braid your hair, Mary, and Nell's right away, so it will be well crimped. And Timmie, you and Carl and Martin have all got to have baths. Yes, you have, whether you like it or not. If you don't you can't go. That's all there is about that, so stop fussing. Carl, you put some kettles of water on the stove to heat. You boys must be scrubbed whether the rest of us are or not. You need it most. And Mary, run like a good girl and see if you can hunt up a clean pair of stockings for everybody—stockings without too many holes. Mercy on us! I wish Mr. Coulter had given us a little more notice—indeed I do!"
"I don't see who's going to know, in that push, whether I've had a bath or not," persisted the argumentative Tim.