People would stop to speak to him, and what was he going to say? He would have to introduce this--this septuagenarian: “This is my son, born early this morning.” And then the old man would gather his blanket around him and they would plod on, past the bustling stores, the slave market--for a dark instant Mr. Button wished passionately that his son was black--past the luxurious houses of the residential district, past the home for the aged.... “Come! Pull yourself together,” commanded the nurse. “See here,” the old man announced suddenly, “if you think I’m going to walk home in this blanket, you’re entirely mistaken.” “Babies always have blankets.” With a malicious crackle the old man held up a small white swaddling garment. “Look!” he quavered. “_This_ is what they had ready for me.” “Babies always wear those,” said the nurse primly. “Well,” said the old man, “this baby’s not going to wear anything in about two minutes. This blanket itches. They might at least have given me a sheet.” “Keep it on! Keep it on!” said Mr. Button hurriedly. He turned to the nurse. “What’ll I do?” “Go down town and buy your son some clothes.” Mr. Button’s son’s voice followed him down into the hall: “And a cane, father. I want to have a cane.” Mr. Button banged the outer door savagely.... 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. 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!”