“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 beard, drooping almost to the waist. The effect was not good. “Wait!” Mr. Button seized a hospital shears and with three quick snaps amputated a large section of the beard. But even with this improvement the ensemble fell far short of perfection. The remaining brush of scraggly hair, the watery eyes, the ancient teeth, seemed oddly out of tone with the gaiety of the costume. Mr. Button, however, was obdurate--he held out his hand. “Come along!” he said sternly. His son took the hand trustingly. “What are you going to call me, dad?” he quavered as they walked from the nursery--“just ‘baby’ for a while? till you think of a better name?” Mr. Button grunted. “I don’t know,” he answered harshly. “I think we’ll call you Methuselah.” III Even after the new addition to the Button family had had his hair cut short and then dyed to a sparse unnatural black, had had his face shaved so close that it glistened, and had been attired in small-boy clothes made to order by a flabbergasted tailor, it was impossible for Button to ignore the fact that his son was a poor excuse for a first family baby. Despite his aged stoop, Benjamin Button--for it was by this name they called him instead of by the appropriate but invidious Methuselah--was five feet eight inches tall. His clothes did not conceal this, nor did the clipping and dyeing of his eyebrows disguise the fact that the eyes underneath were faded and watery and tired. In fact, the baby-nurse who had been engaged in advance left the house after one look, in a state of considerable indignation.