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The queerness of everything was so very big that the little boy's voice almost got lost in it. "Yes, David, Mother is here." "Are you coming to bed?" "Do you want me to come?" "I got trouvers," he said. But there was no pride in this announcement; there was a touch of disappointment. For how is it possible to have trouvers and at the same time to call babyishly for your mother?
But his close-cropped head leaned out over the edge of the crib; and his eager eyes attentively regarded the floppy little legs of trouvers as they were folded over the back of a chair. Then came a sigh of resignation, and the shorn head was plumped down resolutely upon the pillow.
Only you must not call them pants; they are "trouvers." But it doesn't really matter in the least what they are called. Mitch had them. He also had the measles once. David did not know whether it was the measles part or the pants part that made Mitch a bad little boy.
To eat at the Doctor's table, and wholly without the assistance of a high chair that was one of the events; another was a hair-cut, and the third Everybody, salute! David is in trouvers! He and his big friend both admired them immensely, and it was in the little shabby, out-at-the-elbow doctor's office that David had been helped to put them on.
Mitch, who had reached trouvers and understood the mightiness of the achievement, could vouch for the sure result of his prescription. It was guaranteed to cure the dress-habit in seven days. At first, though, Mitch would not tell how the great honor of pants had been bestowed upon him. He was then too important even to say, "Hello, kid!"
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