tleberry's to a dinner dance. Got the bid last week. Say, have I got
any dress-studs at home here? Mine are in my trunk."

Father's studs are requisitioned and the family cluster at Edgar's door
to slide in a few conversational phrases while he is getting the best of
his dress shirt.

"How have you been?" (Three guesses as to who it is that asks this.)

"Oh, all right. Say, have I got any pumps at home? Mine are in the
trunk. Where are those old ones I had last summer?"

"Don't you want me to tie your tie for you?" (Two guesses as to who it
is that asks this.)

"No, thanks. Can I get my laundry done by tomorrow night? I've got to go
out to the Clamps' at Short Neck for over the week-end to a bob-sledding
party, and when I get back from there Mrs. Dibble is giving a dinner and
theatre party."

"Don't you want to eat a little dinner here before you go to the
Whortleberry's?" (One guess as to who it is that asks this.)

But Edgar has bounded down the stairs and left the Family to comfort
each other with such observations as "He looks tired," "I think that he
has filled out a little," or "I wonder if he's studying too hard."

You might stay in the coat-closet for the entire two weeks and not hear
much more of Edgar than this. His parents don't. They catch him as he is
going up and down stairs and while he is putting the studs into his
shirt, and are thankful for that. They really get into closer touch with
him while he is at college, for he writes them a weekly letter then.

Nerve-racking as this sort of life is to the youth who is supposed to
be resting during his vacation, it might be even more wearing if he were
to stay within the Family precincts. Once in a while one of the parties
for which he has been signed up falls through, and he is forced to spend
the evening at home. At first it is somewhat embarrassing to be thrown
in with strangers for a meal like that, but, as the evening wears on,
the ice is broken and things assume a more easy swing. The Family begins
to make remarks.

"You must stand up straighter, my boy," says Father, placing his hand
between Edgar's shoulder-blades. "You are slouching badly. I noticed it
as you walked down the street this morning."

"Do all the boys wear soft-collared shirts like that?" asks Mother.
"Personally, I think that they look very untidy. They are all right for
tennis and things like that, but I wish you'd put on a starched collar
when you are in the house. You never