Clean? Or dirty?

"Christian, please go pick up those socks."

Christian followed my instructions and picked up a pair of dirty socks. Not horribly dirty - worn, but not to the point they'd stand up like a stature without any human interaction. He held them up like trophy fish, one in each hand, and looked at me in anticipation of the next set of commands.

"Put them where they go."

Christian looked at the clothes hamper for the briefest second; he gave it the same amount of consideration he would a trash can.

"Where do they go?" His gaze continued to dart around the room as if he was looking for a sign from heaven.

"Well," I said, "Are they clean, or dirty?"

A flash of inspiration lit up his face, followed by a deep inhalation.

He held one sock up to his nose and sniffed like a dog inspecting another canine. Sniff sniff... big sniff.

"It's clean." He gave his answer with an assurance the demanded agreement. Unfortunately, he was wrong.

"No," I told him. "It's dirty."

"Oh." Christian's face twisted in doubt. But doubt gave way to trust. "OK."

He dropped them in the hamper.