"And which is Philip and which is Percy?" asked Mrs. St. Aiden again, more disposed to be afraid of the boys than they of her.
"Oh, we don't call ourselves by these affected names—nobody does," said the elder of the pair in lofty tones. "I suppose I'm Philip, but really I hardly know. They all call me Pickle, and him Puck. You'll have to do the same."
"I am not very fond of nicknames," said Mrs. St. Aiden, not quite pleased. "I shall call you by your right names whilst you are in my house."
"Call away; we shan't answer!" cried Pickle, with one of the ringing laughs which took off just a little from the bluntness of his speech.—"Come along, Puck, we've done it all now.—Oh, one thing more. Crump sent his love to you, and was sorry he couldn't come down and see you. I think that's all."
"But I don't understand. Who is Crump?" asked Mrs. St. Aiden rather breathlessly.
"Oh, only father," answered Puck, as he sidled out at the door; and then making a dash across into the dining-room, he set up a great whoop of delight, for there was a splendid tea set out—chicken, and ham, and tarts, and Devonshire cream, and several kinds of cake and jam; and the boys had scrambled on to their chairs in a twinkling, and were calling out to somebody to make haste and give them their tea, as they were just starving.
"But you haven't washed your hands," said Esther aghast.
They contemplated their grubby little paws with great equanimity.
"Mine aren't dirty to speak of," said Pickle.
"Mine are quite clean," asserted Puck, with an angelic smile.