"Twaddles means the soap," giggled Meg. "You can't smell a bath, silly."
Father Blossom laid down his carving knife and fork.
"I can't stand that," he declared positively. "Twaddles, you needn't tell me just handling a soapy dog is responsible for the whiffs of carbolic I'm getting. What is that in your pocket?"
A dark wet stain was slowly spreading in the square little pocket of the blouse Twaddles wore.
"I—I saved a piece," he stammered. "I thought Spotty, Aunt Polly's dog, ought to have some. It's awful healthy for dogs, Daddy. Sam says so."
Father Blossom had to laugh.
"I don't doubt it," he admitted. "But that's no reason why we should have to smell it. Wrap it up and put it away if you like for Spotty. And then come back and we'll see if we can finish supper in peace."
