Seen from the rear, William was unrecognizable—­but interesting.  He appeared to be a walking clothes-boiler, armed with a shield and connected, by means of a wash-tub, with a negro of informal ideas concerning dress.  In fact, the group was whimsical, and three young people who turned in behind it, out of a cross-street, indulged immediately in fits of inadequately suppressed laughter, though neither Miss May Parcher nor Mr. Johnnie Watson even remotely suspected that the legs beneath the clothes-boiler belonged to an acquaintance.  And as for the third of this little party, Miss Parcher’s visitor, those peregrinating legs suggested nothing familiar to her.

“Oh, see the fun-ee laundrymans!” she cried, addressing a cottony doglet’s head that bobbed gently up and down over her supporting arm.  “Sweetest Flopit must see, too!  Flopit, look at the fun-ee laundrymans!”

“’Sh!” murmured Miss Parcher, choking.  “He might hear you.”

He might, indeed, since they were not five yards behind him and the dulcet voice was clear and free.  Within the shadowy interior of the clothes-boiler were features stricken with sudden, utter horror.  “Flopit!”

The attention of Genesis was attracted by a convulsive tugging of the tub which he supported in common with William; it seemed passionately to urge greater speed.  A hissing issued from the boiler, and Genesis caught the words, huskily whispered: 

“Walk faster!  You got to walk faster.”

The tub between them tugged forward with a pathos of appeal wasted upon the easy-going Genesis.

“I got plenty time cut ‘at grass befo’ you’ pa gits home,” he said, reassuringly.  “Thishere rope what I got my extry tub slung to is ‘mos’ wo’ plum thew my hide.”

Having uttered this protest, he continued to ambulate at the same pace, though somewhat assisted by the forward pull of the connecting tub, an easance of burden which he found pleasant; and no supplementary message came from the clothes-boiler, for the reason that it was incapable of further speech.  And so the two groups maintained for a time their relative positions, about fifteen feet apart.

The amusement of the second group having abated through satiety, the minds of its components turned to other topics.  “Now Flopit must have his darlin’ ’ickle run,” said Flopit’s mistress, setting the doglet upon the ground.  “That’s why sweetest Flopit and I and all of us came for a walk, instead of sitting on the nice, cool porch-kins.  See the sweetie toddle!  Isn’t he adorable, May?  Isn’t he adorable, Mr. Watson?”

Mr. Watson put a useless sin upon his soul, since all he needed to say was a mere “Yes.”  He fluently avowed himself to have become insane over the beauty of Flopit.

Flopit, placed upon the ground, looked like something that had dropped from a Christmas tree, and he automatically made use of fuzzy legs, somewhat longer than a caterpillar’s, to patter after his mistress.  He was neither enterprising nor inquisitive; he kept close to the rim of her skirt, which was as high as he could see, and he wished to be taken up and carried again.  He was in a half-stupor; it was his desire to remain in that condition, and his propulsion was almost wholly subconscious, though surprisingly rapid, considering his dimensions.