'Well,' said Floss, in the virtuous tone a clean pinafore made justifiable, 'I don't think it is, either. Look at me. I learnt a collect this morning.'
'A what?' said Roly.
'A collect,' said Floss. 'Collect for the thirteenth Sunday after Trinity. Hermie wasn't sure if this was the right Sunday, only it was a nice short one to begin with.'
'Does Miss Hermie teach you your collects?' asked Mortimer, his head turned away a little.
'She wants to,' said Floss, 'but I don't know if she'll always be able to find me. She was looking for Roly, too, this morning, only he was playing Boers somewhere, so he got off.'
'Wasn't playing Boers,' said Roly. 'I was putting a new name on our gate.'
'What a story you are!' cried Floss. 'I saw you creeping along with father's guns.'
'Wasn't!' said Roly. 'Hadn't I got this jersey on?'
'That's nothing; you sleep in it—truly he does, Morty. As soon as Hermie or Miss Browne go out of the room, he puts on the jersey over his pyjamas. Why he hates school is 'cause he can't go in it.'
'What name were you writing on the gate, old fellow?' asked Mortimer, to save the situation.