It was Jamie himself who wrecked the party with his sensitive nostrils. He had talked about vitamines and calories. He had agreed with Margaret Cameron that they would start a régime that he would follow religiously, but since the régime had not started as yet, and since it seemed to him that he never in all his life had smelled anything quite so alluring as the odour of the hot dogs, he reached a long arm over the heads of the youngsters and with one hand gathered up the plumpest hot dog he could see and with the other a particularly pink bottle of pop. What he said was: “Fall to chow! Help yourselves, Buddies!”
Half an hour later he came up the grassy sidewalk past Margaret Cameron’s door and grinned at her. His white face was flushed peculiarly and Margaret Cameron peered at him over the load of clippings she was carrying and then stared reprovingly. “I’ll wager two bits you went down to the corner stand and ate hot dogs with those youngsters,” she accused.
Jamie smiled at her joyously.
“You win!” he said, enthusiastically. “Holy smoke! but they were jewlicious!”
