Free High Time by Mary Lasswell Page A

on.
    ‘Stick out your finger,’ their mentor ordered. They did so and Mrs. Rasmussen squeezed a blob of toothpaste on each clean, water-soaked finger.
    ‘Now rub like hell, an’ let’s see can’t we get some o’ that green moss offa them little teeth!’ The children rubbed like hell. Myrna liked her toothpaste so well that she swallowed it.
    ‘Now the comb!’ Mrs. Rasmussen cried.
    Pierpont’s hair was no job at all, although his cowlick would not stay put Myrna scrouged down in the comer when the comb started in the direction of her kinky red mop. But Mrs. Rasmussen was expert: she held the wiggling mite in a firm grip between her knees.
    ‘Now we’ll eat!’ she announced.
    The boy and girl followed her to the table, eyeing her cautiously all the while. At her command, they sat down and she tied napkins under their chins. They protested. Mrs. Rasmussen ignored the protest and set plates of scrambled eggs and toast in front of them. The water was boiling in the kettle and she made some instant cocoa for them, as there was no fresh milk in the house .
    Pierpont and Myrna tied into the eggs with gusto.
    In the middle of a big mouthful, Myrna announced: ‘Don’ like scrammel-deggs! Wanna hot-dog!’
    With utmost unconcern Mrs. Rasmussen glanced at the almost-empty plate, then said softly: ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll eat your breakfast an’ keep your damn mouth shut before I spank the waddin’ outa you!’
    The other ladies were overcome: they hadn’t known Mrs. Rasmussen was a child psychologist!
    The sight and smell of scrambled eggs were too much for the queasy stomachs of Mrs. Feeley and Miss Tinkham, so they left the vicinity of the table. Miss Tinkham moved slowly and carefully as though she were held together with bits of baling wire. Mrs. Feeley said she felt as if she was made of glass and would shatter if she sat down suddenly.
    ‘Gawd, I wonder what’s keepin’ Lily,’ Mrs. Feeley yawned. ‘Not that I’m in a hurry to see any new faces in this zoo, but they ain’t never been late before.’
    The fog was beginning to lift in Miss Tinkham’s cranium.
    ‘It has just occurred to me that unless the Celestial Bodies are wrong, this is Sunday and the twins won’t be here!’
    ‘Gawd! That’s the truth! That’s the best piece o’ news since Katy an’ Danny told us they was gonna marry!’ Mrs. Feeley sank gently into a heap from sheer relief.
    ‘But what we aimin’ to do with these house-apes?’ Mrs. Rasmussen asked.
    ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’ Miss Tinkham quoted wearily.
    ‘Well, looks like the day’s right at hand!’ Mrs. Rasmussen replied, pointing to Pierpont and Myrna, who had discovered the sewing-machine and were riding up and down like mad things on the treadle.
    ‘Hey, boy! Knock that off this minute!’ Mrs. Feeley shouted.
    ‘Wanna ride! Wanna ride!’ Myrna shrieked.
    ‘Turn on the radio,’ Mrs. Feeley suggested. ‘Maybe that’ll quieten ’em down!’ The radio was playing a charming pastoral entitled ‘Cow Cow Boogie,’ positively obscene at eight A.M.
    Instead of calming the visitors, the music seemed to work them into a frenzy.
    ‘Jitterbug, Myrna! Jitterbug!’ Pierpont cried, clapping his hands in a syncopated beat. His sister needed little encouragement. She pointed a tiny finger in the air and began shaking her head from side to side. Soon her skinny shanks were flying about in all directions in the most approved hep-cat fashion. The ladies held their heads.
    The music came to an end and Myrna ran down.
    ‘Just about in time, I’d say,’ Mrs. Rasmussen muttered, grabbing Myrna by the slack of her pants. ‘Them damn pants! They drags round your ankles like hobbles! ’Nother minute an’ you’d ’a’ fell flat o’ your face!’ She wrestled in vain with the recalcitrant drawers, trying to tighten the waistband. She gave up with a sigh: ‘Your hind-end just ain’t designed to hold up pants!’
    Pierpont was