“Good!” he cried. “That’s the Senatra color. Now,” addressing me, “I’ll go away a little while. You make a Senatra of Christopher.” To Christopher: “Take off everything. Mr. Tudor will put the color all over you. Then you put on Senatra clothes, and whistle for me.”
Patient Christopher would doubtless submit to any indignity that this prankish boy might devise, but I proposed to put a stop to the nonsense. Besides, how could I assume the ridiculous rôle that this young scamp, in whom my indulgence had bred impudence, intended for me?
“Christopher will do nothing of the sort,” I peremptorily said.
The lad stopped short and looked at me curiously.
“I want to, sir,” Christopher interposed, much to my surprise.
“You do? You wish to submit to this foolishness?”
“Foolishness, sir?”
“Yes.”
He reflected a while, and then said:
“Perhaps it ain’t jest foolishness, sir.”