Chapter 2: Buying clothes and taking "the baby" home

Play part 1
"Good-morning," Mr. Button said nervously, to the clerk in the Chesapeake Dry Goods Company. "I want to buy some clothes for my child."

"How old is your child, sir?"

"About six hours," answered Mr. Button, without due consideration.

"Babies' supply department in the rear."

"Why, I don't think—I'm not sure that's what I want. It's—he's an unusually large-size child. Exceptionally—ah large."

"They have the largest child's sizes."

"Where is the boys' department?" inquired Mr. Button, shifting his ground desperately. He felt that the clerk must surely scent his shameful secret.

"Right here."

"Well——" He hesitated. The notion of dressing his son in men's clothes was repugnant(offensive or repulsive; arousing disgust or aversion) to him. If, say, he could only find a very large boy's suit, he might cut off that long and awful beard, dye the white hair brown, and thus manage to conceal the worst, and to retain something of his own self-respect—not to mention his position in Baltimore society.

Play part 2
But a frantic(in a state of panic, worry, frenzy or rush) inspection of the boys' department revealed no suits to fit the new-born Button. He blamed the store, of course—-in such cases it is the thing to blame the store.

"How old did you say that boy of yours was?" demanded the clerk curiously.

"He's—sixteen."

"Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said six hours. You'll find the youths' department in the next aisle(corridor)."

Mr. Button turned miserably away. Then he stopped, brightened, and pointed his finger toward a dressed dummy in the window display. "There!" he exclaimed. "I'll take that suit, out there on the dummy."

The clerk stared. "Why," he protested, "that's not a child's suit. At least it is, but it's for fancy dress(a costume, disguise to masquerade as something or someone else). You could wear it yourself!"

"Wrap it up," insisted his customer nervously. "That's what I want."

The astonished clerk obeyed.

Play part 3
Back at the hospital Mr. Button entered the nursery and almost threw the package at his son. "Here's your clothes," he snapped out.

The old man untied the package and viewed the contents with a quizzical(questioning or suggesting puzzlement) eye.

"They look sort of funny to me," he complained, "I don't want to be made a monkey of—"

"You've made a monkey of me!" retorted Mr. Button fiercely. "Never you mind how funny you look. Put them on—or I'll—or I'll spank(to smack or slap a person's buttocks, with the bare hand or other object) you." He swallowed uneasily at the penultimate(the next-to-last in a sequence) word, feeling nevertheless that it was the proper thing to say.

"All right, father"—this with a grotesque simulation of filial respect—"you've lived longer; you know best. Just as you say."

As before, the sound of the word "father" caused Mr. Button to start(to jerk suddenly in surprise) violently.

"And hurry."

"I'm hurrying, father."

Play part 4
When his son was dressed Mr. Button regarded him with depression. The costume consisted of dotted socks, pink pants, and a belted blouse with a wide white collar. Over the latter(relating to or being the second of two items) waved the long whitish beard, drooping almost to the waist. The effect was not good.

"Wait!"

Mr. Button seized a hospital shears(tool consisting of two blades with bevel edges) and with three quick snaps amputated a large section of the beard. But even with this improvement the ensemble fell far short of perfection. The remaining brush of scraggly(rough, scruffy or unkempt) hair, the watery eyes, the ancient teeth, seemed oddly out of tone with the gaiety(the state of being happy) of the costume. Mr. Button, however, was obdurate(stubbornly persistent, generally in wrongdoing) —he held out his hand. "Come along!" he said sternly.

His son took the hand trustingly. "What are you going to call me, dad?" he quavered(say with a trembling voice) as they walked from the nursery—"just 'baby' for a while? till you think of a better name?"

Mr. Button grunted(a short, snorting sound, often to show disapproval, or used as a reply when one is reluctant to speak). "I don't know," he answered harshly. "I think we'll call you Methuselah."