Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (266 page)

"Where's
the
boys'
department?"
inquired
Mr.
Button,
shifting his
ground
desperately.
He
felt
that
the
clerk
must
surely
scent
his shameful
secret.

"Right
here."

"Well
------
"
He
hesitated.
The
notion
of
dressing
his
son
in
men's

clothes
was
repugnant
to
him.
If,
say,
he
could
only
find
a
very large
boy's
suit,
he
might
cut
off
that
long
and
awful
beard,
dye
the white
hair
brown,
and
thus
manage
to
conceal
the
worst,
and
to retain
something
of
his
own
self-respect—not
to
mention
his
position in
Baltimore
society.

But
a
frantic
inspection
of
the
boys'
department
revealed
no suits
to
fit
the
newborn
Button.
He
blamed
the
store,
of
course— in
such
cases
it
is
the
thing
to
blame
the
store.

"How
old
did
you
say
that
boy
of
yours
was?"
demanded
the
clerk curiously.

"He's—sixteen."

"Oh,
I
beg
your
pardon,
I
thought
you
said
six
hours.
You'll
find the
youths'
department
in
the
next
aisle."

Mr.
Button
turned
miserably
away.
Then
he
stopped,
brightened, and
pointed
his
finger
toward
a
dressed
dummy
in
the
window display.
"There!"
he
exclaimed.
"I'll
take
that
suit,
out
there
on
the dummy."

The
clerk
stared.
"Why,"
he
protested,
"that's
not
a
child's
suit. At
least
it
is,
but
it's
for
fancy
dress.
You
could
wear
it
yourself!"

"Wrap
it
up,"
insisted
his
customer
nervously.
"That's
what
I want."

The
astonished
clerk
obeyed.

Back
at
the
hospital
Mr.
Button
entered
the
nursery
and
almost threw
the
package
at
his
son.
"Here's
your
clothes,"
he
snapped out.

The
old
man
untied
the
package
and
viewed
the
contents
with a
quizzical
eye.

"They
look
sort
of
funny
to
me,"
he
complained.
"I
don't
want
to
be
made
a
monkey
of
---
"

"You've
made
a
monkey
of
me!"
retorted
Mr.
Button
fiercely. "Never
you
mind
how
funny
you
look.
Put
them
on—or
I'll—or
I'll spank
you."
He
swallowed
uneasily
at
the
penultimate
word,
feeling nevertheless
that
it
was
the
proper
thing
to
say.

"All
right,
father"—this
with
a
grotesque
simulation
of
filial respect—"you've
lived
longer;
you
know
best.
Just
as
you
say."

As
before,
the
sound
of
the
word
"father"
caused
Mr.
Button
to start
violently.

"And
hurry."

"I'm
hurrying,
father."

When
his
son
was
dressed
Mr.
Button
regarded
him
with
depression.
The
costume
consisted
of
dotted
socks,
pink
pants,
and
a
belted blouse
with
a
wide
white
collar.
Over
the
latter
waved
the
long whitish
beard,
drooping
almost
to
the
waist.
The
effect
was
not good.

"Wait!"

Mr.
Button
seized
a
hospital
shears
and
with
three
quick
snaps amputated
a
large
section
of
the
beard.
But
even
with
this
improvement
the
ensemble
fell
far
short
of
perfection.
The
remaining
brush of
scraggly
hair,
the
watery
eyes,
the
ancient
teeth,
seemed
oddly
out of
tone
with
the
gayety
of
the
costume.
Mr.
Button,
however,
was obdurate—he
held
out
his
hand.
"Come
along!"
he
said
sternly.