ly large-size child. Exceptionally--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 no suits to
fit the new-born 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