He was unready with his answer.
“And don’t you ever use a hair brush, Dick?” she asked. “I’m sure now there’s one in your parcel.”
“I do use it sometimes, Mum,” he admitted.
“And I’ve never detected you with a toothbrush yet. Though that perhaps is extreme. And Dick—soap? I think you’d better be letting me give you a cake of soap.”
“I’d be very much obliged, Mum.”
“I hardly dare hint, Dick, at a clean handkerchief. Such things are known.”
“If you wouldn’t mind—when I’ve got the breakfast things done, Mum....”
The thing worried him all through breakfast. He had not expected—personalities from Mrs. Bowles. More particularly personalities of this kind. He felt he had to think hard.
He affected modesty after he had cleared away breakfast and carried off his little bundle to a point in the stream which was masked from the encampment by willows. With him he also brought that cake of soap. He began by washing his handkerchief, which was bad policy because that left him no dry towel but his jacket. He ought, he perceived, to have secured a dish-cloth or a newspaper. (This he must remember on the next occasion.) He did over his hands and the more exposed parts of his face with soap and jacket. Then he took off and examined his collar. It certainly was pretty bad....
“Why!” cried Mrs. Bowles when he returned, “that’s still the same collar.”