Keith had no time to arrange feathers. He had taken off his flannels in
order to put on an old striped bathing-suit, which he had found in the
attic and stored away, intending to use it for swimming in the pond when
the weather should grow warm enough. It had no sleeves, and the short
trousers had shrunk until they did not half-way reach his knees. Its red
and white stripes had faded and the colour run until the whole was a
dingy "crushed strawberry" shade. As Malcolm had emptied all the tubes
of red paint in his Aunt Allison's box, Keith had to content himself
with some other colour. He chose the different shades of green,
squeezing the paint out on his plump little legs and arms, and rubbing
it around with his fore finger until he was encircled with as many
stripes as a zebra. Although the day was warm for the early part of
April, the sudden change from his customary clothes and spring flannels
to nothing but the airy bathing suit and war-paint made him a trifle
chilly; so he completed his costume by putting on a pair of scarlet
bedroom slippers, edged with dark fur.
With the dropping of their civilised clothing, the boys seemed to have
dropped all recollections of their professed knighthood, and acted like
the little savages they looked.
"We're going to shoot with your things awhile, Ginger," shouted Keith,
coming suddenly upon her with a whoop, and snatching her bow out of her
hands.
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