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 to wait on other people. All of us got to go through too much pollyfoxing. It’s too familiar to call us by our first names and say anything in plain English. You’ve got to beat around the bush like a scoutin’ Indian to put it across that you’d like a little more butter on your toast, or the strawberry jam just ain’t. What’s the use of all the fuss? When it comes to clothes, both all two of ’em make me sick! That’s what this row was about. I wanted to wear my clothes, so when I got back I could meet the fellows and go down on the beach for a sham battle. Mother would have it that I couldn’t go with you and I couldn’t go to the hospital without being all rigged up until I looked like—” the little Scout stopped and dug an enraged toe in the rug before the wash bowl and then concluded—“until I looked like such a sissy that the Bee Master wouldn’t ‘a’ owned me! And to tell it like a want ad, I was just forced to dress the way they wanted me to and at the same time I had to steal out the things I meant to wear and hide ’em in a hedge down the street a house or two, and then I had to duck the hedge and get the bundle and find a place where I could change, and I’m none too sure my things will be where I left ’em when I go back. Always making a lot of time killing and a lot of worry!”

“I see,” said Jamie, slowly, “but didn’t you want to be dressed in the best you had when you went to visit a very fine gentleman, whom you love as you told me you love the Bee Master?”

The little Scout drew up and heaved a deep breath.