“Nobody arst you to steal—”
“Nor you neither,” said Bealby.
The caravan bumped heavily against a low garden wall, skidded a little and came to rest. William sat down suddenly. The white horse, after a period of confusion with its legs, tried the flavour of some overhanging lilac branches and was content.
“Gimme those reins,” said William. “You be the Brastedest Young Vool....”
“Sittin’ ’ere,” said William presently, “chewin’ our teeth, when we might be eatin’ choc’late....”
“I ’ent got no use for you,” said William, “blowed if I ’ave....”
Then the thought of his injuries returned to him.
“I’d make you sew ’em up yourself, darned if I wount—on’y you’d go running the brasted needle into me.... Nour’s work there is—by the feel of it.... Mor’n nour.... Goddobe done, too.... All I got....”
“I’ll give you Sumpfin, you little Beace, ’fore I done wi’ you.”
“I wouldn’t steal ’er choc’lates,” said young Bealby, “not if I was starving.”