“Yah! That’s just like you,” cried Bob viciously. “I never saw such a chap. Got plenty of clothes, and it don’t matter to you; but look at me!”
“Well, I was looking at you,” I said. “What an old guy you are!”
“Do you want me to hit you on the nose, Sep Duncan?” he said.
“Why, of course not,” I said. “I came over to play, not fight. Where are your Sunday clothes?”
“Where are they?” snarled Bob, speaking as if I had touched him on a very sore spot. “Why, locked up in the surgery cupboard along with the ’natomy bones and the sticking-plaster roll.”
“What! Has your father locked them up?”
“Yes, he has locked them up, and says he isn’t going to run all over the country seeing patients to find me in clothes to lose—just as if I could help it.”
“But haven’t you been measured for some more?”
“Yes, but they won’t be done yet, and father says I’m to go on wearing these the rest of the time I’m at home.”
I looked at him from top to toe as he stood before me, and it was of no use to try to keep my countenance. I could not, and the more I tried the more I seemed to be obliged to laugh.