“Boots!” said Cyril dolefully; “but I don’t know how I am going to get them on.”
“Oh, a good bathing will do that. Here you are.—Now, John Manning, fasten this up again, and take it back.”
“Honour, Master Perry?”
“Honour what?”
“You’re not going to desert?”
“You go and light a good fire and get breakfast ready; we’re going down to have a bathe.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said the old soldier, chuckling. “Well, a bath would improve Master Cyril. Shall I bring you down a tin of hot water, gentlemen.”
“You be off, and hold your tongue. I don’t want my father to know until we get back.”
“All right, gentlemen,” said John Manning, grinning; “but I say, Master Cyril, there’ll be court-martial on you arter breakfast.”
“Come along, and don’t mind him,” whispered Perry, and they hurried down to the side of the torrent, where they had to spend some time before a suitable place was found where they could bathe without being washed away, for the water ran with tremendous force. But at length a safe spot was hit upon, where the stream eddied round and round; and here Perry’s tin of soap was brought into play with plenty of vigour, there being no temptation to prolong their stay in water which had come freshly down from the snow, and which turned their skins of a bluish scarlet by the time they were dressed.