Paul was bursting out with something, but George Grant’s arms were round his waist, and his hands were fumbling at his fastenings. They were each one much stronger than he was now, and they drowned his voice with shouts of laughter, while as fast as one garment was pulled off, another was put on.
‘Mind, you needn’t make such a work, it bain’t presents,’ said George Grant, ‘only we won’t have them asking up at Elbury if we’ve saved the guy to bring in.’
‘It is a present, though, old Betty Bushel’s shirt,’ said Charles Hayward. ‘She said she’d throw it at his head if he brought it back again; but the frock’s mine.’
‘And the corduroys is mine,’ said George Grant. ‘My! they be a sight too big in the band! Run in, Harold, and see if your mother can lend us a pin.’
‘And the waistcoat is my summer one,’ said Fred Bunting. ‘He’s too big too; why, Paul, you’re no better than a natomy!’
‘Never mind, my white frock will hide it all,’ said Charles, ‘and here’s Ned’s cap for you. Oh! and it’s poor Alfred’s boots.’
Paul could not make up his mind to walk all the way in the boots, but to satisfy the boys he engaged to put them on as soon as they were getting to Elbury.
‘My! he looks quite respectable,’ cried Charles, running back a little way to look at him.
‘I wonder if Mr. Cope will know him?’ exclaimed Harold, jumping leap-frog fashion on George Grant’s back.
‘The maids will take him for some strange gentleman,’ exclaimed Jem Hayward; ‘and why, bless me, he’s washed, I do declare!’ as a streak of light from the door fell on Paul’s visage.