Course, in a way, it was our fault, I expect. We never should have let on that there was any hitch about what we was goin' to name the baby. Blessed if I know now just how it got around. I remember Vee and I havin' one or two little talks on the subject, but I don't think we'd tackled the proposition real serious.
You see, at first we were too busy sort of gettin' used to havin' him around and framin' up a line on this parent act we was supposed to put over. Anyway, I was. And for three or four weeks, there, I called him anything that came handy, from Young Sport to Old Snoodlekins. Vee she sticks to Baby. Uh-huh—just plain Baby. But the way she says it, breathin' it out kind of soft and gentle, sounded perfectly all right to me.
And the youngster didn't seem to have any kick comin'. He was gettin' so he'd look up and coo real intelligent when she speaks to him in that fashion. You couldn't blame him, for it was easy to listen to.
As for the different things I called him—well, he didn't mind them, either. No matter what it was,—Old Pink Toes or Wiggle-heels,—he'd generally pass it off with a smile, providin' he wasn't too busy with his bottle or tryin' to get hold of his foot with both of his hands.
Then one day Auntie, who's been listenin' disapprovin' all the while, just can't hold in any longer.
"Isn't it high time," says she, "that you addressed the child properly by his right name?"
"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "Which one?"
"You don't mean to say," she goes on, "that you have not yet decided on his baptismal name?"
"I didn't know he was a Baptist," says I feeble.
"We hadn't quite settled what to call him," says Vee.