“Yes, if you please,” Mrs. Mar broke in. “He’s been propelling the plank all round the pond with those two poor little innocents on it—the greatest wonder they weren’t drowned.”
“It was very wrong,” said Mr. Mar, gravely—then, under his breath to his wife, “but the water isn’t much over a foot at the deepest.”
“Quite enough to drown any wretched baby that might fall in—but, of course, you defend that boy no matter what he—”
“Not at all—not at all. I don’t approve in the least of his—”
“And our two little boys mud and dirt from their heads to their heels, looking like a couple of chimney-sweeps—”
“No, ma’am,” said the young gentleman from the horsehair chair, in a conciliatory tone. “Twenn and Hawwy ain’t black, only just bwown.”
“Brown, indeed! I’ll brown you, sir, if you ever do such a thing again while you’re staying here! Harry with his stocking quite torn off one leg! And Trennor’s only decent breeches—”
“Vere was a nail in vat board,” Jack explained, conversationally, putting a finger through a jag in his own trouser knee.
“Small matter to you, if you do ruin your things.” (Jack began to swing his muddy feet—it was gloriously true.) “But you’ve got to remember that other children’s clothes don’t grow on gooseberry bushes.”