wouldn't. Ye gods!
What do you suppose she WOULD think? You know what he's got on!"

"It's a sort of sleeveless jersey he wears, Willie, I think."

"No, you DON'T think that!" he cried, with great bitterness. "You know
it's not a jersey! You know perfectly well what it is, and yet you
expect to keep him out there when--when one of the one of the nobl--when
my friends arrive! And they'll think that's our DOG out there, won't
they? When intelligent people come to a house and see a dog sitting out
in front, they think it's the family in the house's dog, don't they?"
William's condition becoming more and more disordered, he paced the
room, while his agony rose to a climax. "Ye gods! What do you think Miss
Pratt will think of the people of this town, when she's invited to meet
a few of my friends and the first thing she sees is a nigger in his
undershirt? What 'll she think when she finds that child's eaten up half
the food, and the people have to explain that the dog in the front
yard belongs to the darky--" He interrupted himself with a groan: "And
prob'ly she wouldn't believe it. Anybody'd SAY they didn't own a dog
like that! And that's what you want her to see, before she even gets
inside the house! Instead of a regular gardener in livery like we ought
to have, and a bulldog or a good Airedale or a fox-hound, or something,
the first things you want intelligent people from out of town to see are
that awful old darky and his mongrel scratchin' fleas and like as not
lettin' 'em get on other people! THAT'd be nice, wouldn't it? Go out to
tea expecting decent treatment and get fl--"

"WILLIE!"

Mrs. Baxter managed to obtain his attention. "If you'll go and brush
your hair I'll send Genesis and Clematis away for the rest of the
afternoon. And then if you 'll sit down quietly and try to keep cool
until your friends get here, I'll--"

"'Quietly'!" he echoed, shaking his head over this mystery. "I'm the
only one that IS quiet around here. Things 'd be in a fine condition to
receive guests if I didn't keep pretty cool, I guess!"

"There, there," she said, soothingly. "Go and brush your hair. And
change your collar, Willie; it's all wilted. I'll send Genesis away."

His wandering eye failed to meet hers with any intelligence. "Collar,"
he muttered, as if in soliloquy. "Collar."

"Change it!" said Mrs. Baxter, raising her voice. "It's WILTED."

He departed in a dazed manner.

Passing through the hall, he paused abruptly,