“They’re nearly six months older now,” said my father smiling, as he performed the feminine task of pouring out the tea, “and they’ll be more careful.”
“Will they?” said the doctor emphatically. “You see if the young varlets are not in trouble before the week’s out, sir.”
“Let’s hope not,” said my father. “Come, boys, help yourselves to the ham and eggs.”
“Come, boys, help yourselves to the ham and eggs!” said Bob Chowne to me, as soon as we were alone. “Who’s to help himself to ham and eggs when he’s having the suit of clothes he lost banged about his unfortunate head? It regularly spoiled my tea.”
“Why, Bob,” I cried, “you had three big cups, six pieces of bread and butter, two slices of ham, three eggs, a piece of cake, and some cream.”
“There’s a sneak—there’s a way to treat a fellow!” he cried, growing spiky all over, and snorting with annoyance. “Ask a poor chap to tea, and then count his mouthfuls. Well, that is mean.”
“Why, I only said so because you declared you had had a bad tea.”
“So I did—miserable,” he retorted. “I seemed to see myself again sitting at home in those old worn-out clothes, and afraid to go out at any other time but night, when no one was looking.”
“Now, Bob: where are you?” cried his father. “I’ll take him off at once, Duncan, or he’ll eat you out of house and home.”
“Hear that?” cried Bob, “hear that? Pretty way to talk of a fellow, isn’t it. I don’t wonder everybody hates me. I’m about the most miserable chap that ever was.”