“What was it, Mr. Mim?” inquired Elfie, very indiscreetly. People ought to be very cautious how they ask questions.
“Well, Miss Fielding, a sort of irritating—a—a—sort of irritating—a—a—a—sort of irritating—RASH!” at last triumphantly exclaimed little Mim, elated at having found an inoffensive word to describe the calamity that had overtaken his companions.
“Glad to hear it,” said remorseless Elfie—“hope whatever it is, it will ‘irritate’ them for the rest of their mortal career.”
“But of all the victims,” laughed little Mim, “the greatest sufferer was that dandy fellow—what was his name? Nincomfool?—Sickapoop?—Billydoo? Whatever was the fellow’s name? The one with the tea-rose in his button-hole, who played the guitar and cried and begged so when the big guerrilla made him give up his fine raiment and clothe himself in rags—Sickafool?—Billypoop?”
“Billingcoo?” suggested Elfie.
“Yes—thanks. I knew his name was something that put one in mind of turtle doves and love-letters! Oh! Miss Fielding—!” And little Mim laughed.
“What is it, then? What about Billingcoo?”
“I don’t think he got the rash; but I do think he suffered under the impression that he had absorbed through the pores of his skin the greater half of the weight of rags he wore. He spends his whole income in vapor baths and cologne water!”
“Poor dandy! I hope and trust he may be drafted after the next enrollment! Three years of military duty would take the nonsense out of him,” said Elfie, as, much to the relief of Miss Suzy, she arose to take leave.
“You will stay a little longer with me?” politely pleaded little Mim.