And he went to bed without saying anything about it.
In the morning Whitey was up with the sun, and went to get his boots.
And, oh, ye gods! Why didn't the heavens fall?
What once was a pair of proud boots, looked like two little, brown wrinkled apples! It was a tragedy in six acts.

It was worse than that, for one can find words for a tragedy.

But why dwell on it?
And while Whitey was getting the worst of the first, horrible shock, his father came into the living-room, and not knowing why, Whitey ran, and his father, not knowing why, I suspect, ran after him.

Whitey was fleet of foot, and much smaller than his father, so he could make the stairs better.

And he ran up and down and around, now slamming this door, and now slamming that one.
And Whitey's father began to get angry.