The comrades set out for the fete in company, final maternal
outpourings upon deportment and the duty of dancing with the
hostess evaporating in their freshly cleaned ears. Both boys,
however, were in a state of mind, body, and decoration
appropriate to the gala scene they were approaching. Their
collars were wide and white; inside the pockets of their
overcoats were glistening dancing-pumps, wrapped in
tissue-paper; inside their jacket pockets were pleasant-smelling
new white gloves, and inside their heads solemn timidity
commingled with glittering anticipations. Before them, like a
Christmas tree glimpsed through lace curtains, they beheld joy
shimmering--music, ice-cream, macaroons, tinsel caps, and the
starched ladies of their hearts Penrod and Sam walked demurely
yet almost boundingly; their faces were shining but grave--they
were on their way to the Party!
"Look at there!" said Penrod. "There's Carlie Chitten!"
"Where?" Sam asked.
"'Cross the street. Haven't you got any eyes?"
"Well, whyn't you say he was 'cross the street in the first
place?" Sam returned plaintively.
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