“Don’t want choc’late,” said Bealby, thinking of a large lump of it.
“Go on,” said William. “Nobody won’t see you....”
“Go it!” said William....
“You’re afraid,” said William....
“Here, I’ll go,” said William, losing self-control. “You just ’old these reins.”
Bealby took the reins. William got up and opened the door of the caravan. Then Bealby realized his moral responsibility—and, leaving the reins, clutched William firmly by his baggy nether garments. They were elderly garments, much sat upon. “Don’t be a Vool,” said William struggling. “Leago my slack.”
Something partially gave way, and William’s head came round to deal with Bealby.
“What you mean pullin’ my cloes orf me?”
“That,”—he investigated. “Take me a Nour to sew up.”
“I ain’t going to steal,” shouted Bealby into the ear of William.