 | Tales of the jazz age |  |
II
"Good-morning," Mr. Button said, nervously, to the
clerk in the Chesapeake Dry Goods Company. "I want
to buy some clothes for my child."
"How old is your child, sir?"
"About six hours," answered Mr. Button, without
due consideration.
"Babies' supply department in the rear."
"Why, I don't think—I'm not sure that's what I
want. It's—he's an unusually large-size child. Ecceptionally—ah—large."
"They have the largest child's sizes."
"Where is 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
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.
His son took the hand trustingly. "What are you
going to call me, dad?" he quavered as they walked from
the nursery—"just `baby' for a while? till you think of
a better name?"
Mr. Button grunted. "I don't know," he answered
harshly. "I think we'll call you Methuselah."
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