Reuben did not eat with such pretty manners as yours, perhaps, but there was no doubt about his enjoyment of the food they had brought, though he only stopped eating for half a second, to answer, “Prime. Thank you,” to Kathleen’s earnest inquiries.
“Now,” said Francis when the last crumb of cheese had disappeared and the last trace of plum juice had been licked from the spoon (a tin one, because, as Mrs. Pearce very properly said, you never know)—“now, look here. We’re going straight down to the shore to try and see her. And if you like to come with us we can disguise you.”
“What in?” Reuben asked. “I did disguise myself once in a false beard and a green-colored mustache, but it didn’t take no one in for a moment, not even the dogs.”
“We thought,” said Mavis gently, “that perhaps the most complete disguise for you would be girl’s clothes—because,” she added hastily to dispel the thundercloud on Reuben’s brow—“because you’re such a manly boy. Nobody would give vent to a moment’s suspicion. It would be so very unlike you.”
“G’a long—” said the Spangled Child, his dignity only half soothed.
“And I’ve brought you some of my things and some sandshoes of France’s, because, of course, mine are just kiddy shoes.”
At that Reuben burst out laughing and then hummed: “‘Go, flatterer, go, I’ll not trust to thy vow,’” quite musically.
“Oh, do you know the ‘Gypsy Countess’? How jolly!” said Kathleen.
“Old Mother Romaine knew a power of songs,” he said, suddenly grave. “Come on, chuck us in the togs.”