Cheaper by the Dozen

her.
    Experience has established the fact that a person cannot move from a small, peaceful home into a family of a dozen without having something finally snap. We saw this happen time after time with Dad's stenographers and with the cooks who followed Mrs. Cunningham. In order to reside with a family of a dozen it is necessary either (1) to be brought up from birth in such a family, as we were; or (2) to become accustomed to it as it grew, as Dad, Mother, and Tom Grieves did.
    It was at the dinner table that something finally snapped in Aunt Anne.
    We had spent the entire meal purposely making things miserable for her. Bill had hidden under the table, and we had removed his place and chair so she wouldn't realize he was missing. While we ate, Billy thumped Aunt Anne's legs with the side of his hand.
    "Who's kicking me?" she complained. "Saints alive!"
    We said no one.
    "Well, you don't have a dog, do you?"
    We didn't, and we told her so. Our collie had died some time before this.
    "Well somebody's certainly kicking me. Hard."
    She insisted that the child sitting on each side of her slide his chair toward the head of the table, so that no legs could possibly reach her. Bill thumped again.
    "Somebody is kicking me," Aunt Anne said, "and I intend to get to the bottom of it. Literally."
    Bill thumped again. Aunt Anne picked up the table cloth and looked under the table, but Bill had anticipated her and retreated to the other end. The table was so long you couldn't see that far underneath without getting down on your hands and knees, and Aunt Anne was much too dignified to stoop to any such level. When she put the table cloth down again, Bill crawled forward and licked her hand.
    "You do too have a dog," Aunt Anne said accusingly, while she dried her hand on a napkin. "Speak up now! Who brought that miserable cur into the house?"
    Bill thumped her again and retreated. She picked up the table cloth and looked. She put it down again, and he licked her hand. She looked again, and then dangled her hand temptingly between her knees. Bill couldn't resist this trap, and this time Aunt Anne was ready for him. When he started to lick, she snapped her knees together like a vise, trapped his head in the folds of her skirt, and reached down and grabbed him by the hair.
    "Come out of there, you scamp you," she shouted. "I've got you. You can't get away this time. Come out, I say." She didn't give Bill a chance to come out under his own power. She yanked, and he came out by the hair of his head, screaming and kicking.

    In those days, Bill was not a snappy dresser. He liked old clothes, preferably held together with safety pins, and held up by old neckties. When he wore a necktie around his neck, which was as seldom as possible, he sometimes evened up the ends by trimming the longer with a pair of scissors. His knickers usually were partially unbuttoned in the front—what the Navy calls the commodore's privilege. They were completely unfastened at the legs and hung down to his ankles. During the course of a day, his stockings rode gradually down his legs and, by dinner, had partially disappeared into his sneakers. When Mother was at home, she made him wear such appurtenances as a coat and a belt. In her absence, he had grown slack.
    When Aunt Anne jerked him out, a piece of string connecting a buttonhole in his shirt with a buttonhole in the front of his trousers suddenly broke. Bill grabbed for his pants, but it was too late.
    "Go to your room, you scamp you," Aunt Anne said, shaking him. "Just wait until your father comes home. He'll know how to take care of you."
    Bill picked up his knickers and did as he was told. He had a new respect for Aunt Anne, and the whole top of his head ; was smarting from the hair-pulling.
    Aunt Anne sat down with deceptive calm, and gave us a disarming smile.
    "I want you children to listen carefully to me," she almost whispered. "There's not a living soul here, including the baby, who is cooperative. I've never seen a more spoiled crowd of children."
    As she went on, her voice grew louder. Much louder. Tom Grieves opened the pantry door a crack and peeked in.
    "For those of you who like to believe that an only child is a selfish child, let me say you are one hundred per cent wrong. From what I have seen, this is the most completely selfish household in the entire world."
    She was roaring now, wide open, and it was the first time we had ever seen her that way. Except that her voice was an octave higher,