Cheaper by the Dozen

his left shoulder and run it down the top of his left arm, back up the bottom of his left arm to his armpit, down his side, down the outside of his left leg, and then up the inside of his left leg. Then he'd change the soap to his left hand and do the same thing to his right side. After a couple of circular strokes on his midsection and his back, and some special attention to his feet and face, he'd dude under for a rinse and get out. He had all the boys in the bathroom several times to demonstrate just how he did it, and he sat in the middle of the living room rug one day, with all his clothes on, to teach the girls.
    So there was no more unavoidable delay in the bathroom, and it wasn't long before we were all speaking at least a pidgin variety of French and German. For ten years, the victrolas ground out their lessons on the second floor of our Montclair house. As we became fairly fluent, we often would speak the languages at the dinner table. Dad was left out of the conversation when the talk was in French.
    "Your German accents are not so bad," he said. "I can understand most of what you say when you talk German. But your French accents are so atrocious that no one but yourselves could possibly understand you. I believe you've developed some exotic language all your own, which has no more relation to French than it does to Pig Latin."
    We giggled, and he turned furiously to Mother.
    "Don't you think so, Lillie?"
    "Well, dear," she said. "I don't think anyone would mistake them for natives of France, but I can usually make out what they're getting at"
    "That," said Dad, with some dignity, "is because you learned your French in this country, where everybody talks with an accent, whereas my knowledge of the language came straight from the streets of Paris."
    "Maybe so, dear," said Mother. "Maybe so."
    That night, Dad moved the boys' bathroom victrola into his bedroom, and we heard him playing French records, far into the night.
    At about the time that he brought home the victrolas, Dad became a consultant to the Remington typewriter company and, through motion study methods, helped Remington develop the world's fastest typist He told us about it one night at dinner—how he had put little flashing lights on the fingers of the typist and taken moving pictures and time exposures to see just what motions she employed and how those motions could be reduced.
    "Anyone can learn to type fast," Dad concluded. "Why I've got a system that will teach touch typing in two weeks. Absolutely guaranteed."
    You could see the Great Experiment hatching in his mind. "In two weeks," he repeated. "Why I could even teach a child to type touch system in two weeks."
    "Can you type touch system, Daddy?" Bill asked.
    "In two weeks," said Dad. "I could teach a child. Anybody can do it if he will do just exactly what I tell him to do."
    The next day he brought home a new, perfectly white typewriter, a gold knife, and an Ingersoll watch. He unwrapped them and put them on the dining room table.
    "Can I try the typewriter, Daddy?" asked Mart.
    "Why is the typewriter white?" Anne wanted to know. "All typewriters I've ever seen were black. It's beautiful, all right, but why is it white?"
    "It's white so that it will photograph better," Dad explained. "Also, for some reason, anyone who sees a white typewriter wants to type on it. Don't ask me why. It's psychology."
    All of us wanted to use it, but Dad wouldn't let anyone touch it but himself.
    "This is an optional experiment," he said. "I believe I can teach the touch system in two weeks. Anyone who wants to learn will be able to practice on the white machine. The one who can type the fastest at the end of two weeks will receive the typewriter as a present. The knife and watch will be prizes awarded on a handicap basis, taking age into consideration."
    Except for the two youngest, who still weren't talking, we all said we wanted to learn.
    "Can I practice first, Daddy?" Lill asked.
    "No one practices until I say ‘practice.' Now first I will show you how the typewriter works." Dad got a sheet of paper. "The paper goes in here. You turn this—so-oo. And you push the carriage over to the end of the line—like this." And Dad, using two fingers, hesitatingly pecked out the first thing that came to his mind—his name.
    "Is that the touch system, Daddy?" Bill asked.
    "No," said Dad. "I'll show you the touch system in a little while."
    "Do you know the touch system, Daddy?"
    "Let's say I know how to