"I can never remember whether it has one l and two p's or the other way round."
"But you haven't considered any of the common ones," goes on Vee, "such as John or William or Thomas or James or Arthur."
"Because that would mean he'd be called Bill or Tom or Art," says I. "Besides, I kind of thought he ought to have something out of the usual run—one you wouldn't forget as soon as you heard it."
"If I may suggest," breaks in Auntie, "the custom of giving the eldest son the family name of his mother is rather a good one. Had you considered Hemmingway?"
I just gasps and glances at Vee. What if she should fall for anything like that! Think of smotherin' a baby under most of the alphabet all at one swoop! And imagine a boy strugglin' through schooldays and vacations with all that tied to him.
Hemmingway! Why, he'd grow up round-shouldered and knock-kneed, and most likely turn out to be a floor-walker in the white goods department, or the manager of a gift-shop tearoom. Hemmingway!
Just the thought of it made me dizzy; and I begun breathin' easier when I saw Vee shake her head.
"He's such a little fellow, Auntie," says she. "Wouldn't that be—well, rather topheavy?"
Which disposes of Auntie. She admits maybe it would. But from then on, as the news seems to spread that we was havin' a kind of deadlock with the namin' process, the volunteers got busy. Old Leon Battou, our butler-cook, hinted that his choice would be Emil.
"For six generations," says he, "Emil has been the name of the first-born son in our family."