"Funny-Dog!" said Mummy suddenly.
And with a cry of "Comfort me, Old Thing!" Buster laid his head in Boodle's lap and wept.
"Try again, darling," said Boodle. . . . "What did they wear?"
"Breeches of Faith and breeches of Promise," was the reply.
"What is those?" asked the Vice.
"Well, when they ordered breeches and got them on tick, they were breeches of Faith, but when the clothes-cook took their measure and never sent the things, they were breeches of Promise," explained Buster.
"Why the cook, and not the tailor?" inquired the President.
"Because the tailor only made tales, of course," was the reply, " while the builder made storeys."
"What else did they wear?" pursued the President—being a Woman.
"Oh—lots of things—sunny smiles . . . an air of mystery . . . rue with a difference . . . worried looks. They lived in hope, and they lived on sufferance. But they were very just. Always just. Just about everything. Just about
