[16]
]She squeezed a tear out of her smiling eyes when Meg bade her look at the ruin of her pretty red shoes.
“And you told me a story, Essie; you said you were good, and were not getting wet.”
Meg held the little offender away from her, and looked upon her with stern reproach.
“But on’y my legs was dettin’ wet—not me,” explained Essie, with a sob in her voice and a dimple at the corner of her mouth.
There was nothing of course to be done but put the water-jug into its basin, and carry the small sinner downstairs in dry socks and ankle-strap slippers that showed signs of having been wet through at some time or other.
Bunty was lying on his back on the dining-room couch, which Meg had left strewn with footwear waiting to be paired and rolled up.
“Oh, John!” she said vexedly, seeing her work scattered about the floor.
“John” took no notice. I should tell you, perhaps, that, since starting to school, Bunty’s baptismal name had been called into requisition by authorities who objected to nicknames, and his family fell into the way of using it occasionally too.
He was a big, awkward lad, tall for his thirteen years, and very loosely built. Nell used to say [17] ]complainingly that he always looked as if he needed tightening up. His clothes never fitted him, or seemed part of him, like other boys’ clothes. His coats generally looked big and baggy, while his trousers had a way of creeping up his ankles and showing a piece of loose sock.
In the matter of collars he was hopeless. He had a daily allowance of one clean one, but, even if you met him quite early in the morning, there would be nothing but a limp, crooked piece of linen of doubtful hue visible. He had the face of a boy at war with the world. His eyes were sullen, brooding—his mouth obstinate. Every one knew he was the black sheep. He knew it himself, and resented it in silence.