And then he went to the closet and put on his long pants that belonged to his Sunday suit. The looking-glass wasn't big enough so he could see his hair and his long pants all at the same time, but he tilted the glass and squirmed and twisted around and saw them bit by bit. At first I thought maybe he was going out again, even at that time of night, but he wasn't; all he was doing was admiring himself. Just then his father pounded on the wall and asked him if he wasn't in bed yet, and he said he was going. He put the light out right away. But he didn't go to bed. He just sat in the dark with his clean ears and his long pants on and his hair parted in the middle, and several times before I went to sleep myself I heard him sigh and say: “Little Eva! Little Eva's dying! Little Eva!” He must have got so tired he forgot to undress, staying up that late and everything, for in the morning when his father pounded on the door he didn't answer. I was under the bed, and I stayed there. Pretty soon his father pounded again, and then he came into the room. And there Freckles was lying on the bed with his Sunday pants on and his hair parted in the middle and his ears clean. “Harold!” says his father, and shook him, “what does this mean?” Harold is Freckles's other name, but if any one of his size calls him Harold, there will be a fight. He sat up on the bed and says, still sleepy: “What does what mean, Pa?” “Your lying there asleep with your clothes on,” says his father.. “I was dressing, and I went to sleep again,” says Freckles. “Uh-huh!” says his father. “It looks like it, don't it?” “Yes, sir,” says Freckles. I had crawled out to the foot of the bed where I could see them, and he was still sleepy, but he was trying hard to think up something. “It looks a lot like it,” says his father. “If you had slept in that bed, the covers would have been turned down, wouldn't they?” “Yes, sir,” says Freckles, looking at them. “Well, what then?” says his father. “Well, Pa,” says Freckles, “I guess I must have made that bed up again in my sleep, and I never knew it.” “Humph!” says his father. “Do you do that often?” “Yes, sir,” says Freckles, “a good deal lately.” “Harold,” says his father, real interested, “aren't you feeling well these days?” “No, Pa,” says Freckles, “I ain't felt so very well for quite a while.” “Humph!” says his pa. “How does it come when you dressed yourself you put on your Sunday pants, and this is only Tuesday?” Harold says he guesses he did that in his sleep, too, the same time he made the bed up. His pa wants to know if that has ever happened to him before. “Yes, sir,” says Freckles, “once I woke up in the moonlight right out on one of the top limbs of the big maple tree in the front yard, with my Sunday suit on.” “Humph!” says his father. “And was your hair parted in the middle that time, too?”