“Gee!” says I. “Aunty carries her own scenery with her, don’t she?”
“That’s Bismarck in the cage,” says Dyke.
“How Bizzy has changed!” says I. “But why the feather mattress?”
“She won’t sleep on anything else,” says he. “Watch how pleased my sisters look. They just love this—not! But she insists on having the whole family here to meet her.”
I must say for Mr. Mallory that he stood it well, a heavy swell like him givin’ the glad hand in public to a quaint old freak like that. But Aunt Elvira don’t waste much time swappin’ fam’ly greetin’s.
“Where is Dyckman?” says she, settin’ her chin for trouble. “Isn’t he here?”
“Oh, yes,” says Mr. Mallory. “Right over there,” and he points his cane handle to where Dyke and me are grouped on the side lines.
“Here, hold Bismarck!” says Aunty, jammin’ the brass cage into Mr. Mallory’s arm, and with that she pikes straight over to us. I never mistrusted she’d be in any doubt as to which was which, until I sees her look from one to the other, kind of waverin’. No wonder, though; for, from the descriptions she’d had, neither of us came up to the divinity student specifications. Yet it was something of a shock when she fixes them sharp old lamps on me and says:
“Land to goodness! You?”
“Reverse!” says I. “Here’s the guilty party,” and I pushes Dyke to the front.