"Pore little bits," the father murmured tenderly. Then he went on more directly to his visitor. "But they do need washin'. It's kind o' natural fer kids to fancy dirt. After that," he went on, his eyes drifting over to a pile of dirty clothes stacked on a chair, "I'll sure have to do a bit of washing." He set the frying-pan down beside the stove and moved over to the clothes, picking up the smallest pair of child's knickers imaginable. They were black with dirt, and he held them up before Sunny's wondering eyes and smiled pathetically. "Ridic'lous small," he said, with an odd twist of his pale lips. "Pore little gal." Then his scanty eyebrows drew together perplexedly, and that curious expression of helplessness that was his crept into his eyes. "Them frills an' bits git me some," he said in a puzzled way. "Y'see, I ain't never used an iron much, to speak of. It's kind of awkward using an iron." Sunny nodded. Somehow he wished he knew something about using an iron. Birdie had said nothing about it. "Guess you hot it on the stove," he hazarded, after a moment's thought. "Yes, I'd say you hot it," agreed Scipio. "It's after that." "Yes." Sunny found himself thinking hard. "You got an iron?" he inquired presently. "Sure--two." Scipio laid the knickers aside. "You hot one while you use the other." Sunny nodded again. "You see," the other went on, considering, "these pretties needs washin' first. Well, then I guess they need to dry. Now, 'bout starch? 'Most everything needs starch. At least, ther' always seems to be starch around washing-time. Y'see, I ain't wise to starch." "Blamed if I am either," agreed Sunny. Then his more practical mind asserted itself. "Say, starch kind o' fixes things hard, don't it?" he inquired. "It sure does." Scipio was trying to follow out his companion's train of thought. Sunny suddenly sat down on the edge of the table and grinned triumphantly. "Don't use it," he cried, with finality. "You need to remember kiddies is tender skinned, anyway. Starch'll sure make 'em sore." Scipio brightened. "Why, yes," he agreed, with relief. "I didn't jest think about that. I'm a heap obliged, Sunny. You always seem to help me out." The flush of pleasure which responded to the little man's tribute was quite distinguishable through the dirt on the loafer's face. "Don't mention it," he said embarrassedly. "It's easy, two thinkin' together. 'Sides, I've tho't a heap 'bout things since--since I started to fix your kiddies right. Y'see, it ain't easy."