The boy laughed.
“It does sound rather like a disease, doesn’t it? No, it’s the same sort of thing as Poole’s Myriorama.”
“I’m no wiser.”
“Well, it’s a set of large coloured pictures of places in foreign parts. And there are some singers with guitars. Italian perhaps.” Ah, cunning Bram!
“Italian, eh? And you want to gaze into their liquid and passionate orbs, eh?”
“I would rather like to—only as a matter of fact I haven’t got any chink. Caleb lent me some, but he won’t lend me any more till I pay him back. I’ve had to give him my best bat till I do.”
“How much do you owe the little alligator?”
“Two and threepence halfpenny, and sixpence interest up to date, and twopence for the linseed oil for oiling the bat, because he said he’d have to keep it in good condition during the winter. Two and elevenpence halfpenny altogether.”
Mrs. Fuller grunted.
“And anyway papa won’t let me go down into Brigham unless I can get a good excuse.”