Mr. De Jarnette was not very sure of his ground, but in a general way he remembered the story and with fatal fatuity trusted to be able to supply satisfactory details. Alas for the success of such a scheme! A child's memory for stories is verbal and circumstantial, and a deviation is a crime. "Once on a time," began Mr. De Jarnette--he was sure of this much--"there was a little girl named Red Riding Hood. I don't know why she was named that. It was almost as odd a name for a girl as 'Alcohol' was for a turtle." This was padding. He had perceived that his other story was too condensed. "It was 'cause she had a little red cloak with a hood," said Philip. "That's part of the story." "Of course. I hadn't thought of that." It came to Mr. De Jarnette whimsically that he was sharing the fate of all padders. Philip had instantly picked out the spurious material and thrown it aside. "Well, this little girl lived with her mother, but she had an old--an old-d--aunt--" "It was her grandmother," corrected his audience. "So it was--her grandmother. Don't hesitate about setting me right any time, Philip." "No, sir, I won't. I see you don't know it very well." "H-m. Well, this little girl went over one day to take her aun--her grandmother some flowers--" "Unker Wichard," said Philip in a tone of real distress, "it wasn't flowers! It was a pot of butter." "I believe you are right. Well--" The story went on haltingly, and with many corrections and amendments. It seemed incredible to Philip that anybody could tell a story so poorly. Once when the thrilling part was reached detailing the colloquy between the little maid and the wicked wolf, Mr. De Jarnette unhappily dropped into the indirect quotation--a thing that has spoiled many a dramatic passage in the pulpit. "--So when the little girl asked the wolf what made his eyes so large he told her it was so that he could see everything." Philip had been sorely tried before. But at this mangling of a fine thing he cried out in utter exasperation, "Unker Wichard! _That_ isn't the way! Little Wed Widing Hood says, 'Gwandmother, what makes your ey-y-es so big?'" His own matched the wolf's. "And then the old wolf says, 'To _se-e-e_ the better, my dear!'" His voice was terrible to hear. "That's what I said, Philip--in substance." "Yes, but you didn't say it like you believed it. When my mama tells it I can just _hear_ the old wolf. _Unker Wichard, where is_--" "Philip, I haven't finished the story yet." In his alarm he threw himself into the remainder of the narrative with a frantic eagerness that was fairly satisfactory. Even with the highly dramatic close Philip found no fault. But when it stopped he sat with muscles tense, and eyes eager. He was plainly waiting for something else. "Well?" he said. Mr. De Jarnette was puzzled. "Well? That's the end." Philip became limp.