“After he’s had a good wash,” said Mrs. Plumer. She was still doubtful, but a sort of kindliness was struggling to the surface. “Weren’t you afraid when they jumped out on you, sir!” She asked Sargon directly. His blue eyes sought Bobby’s for instructions.
“It was a great shock to him,” said Bobby, “a great shock. He’s hardly got over it yet.”
“Hardly got over it yet,” said Sargon in confirmation.
“Took all your clothes off, they did. It’s shameful,” said Mrs. Plumer. “And you with a cold coming on.”
“We’ll get him to bed. Of course, if you’ve got anything for us to eat we might have it first here. Perhaps just a bit of toasted cheese or Welsh Rarebit, or something of that sort, and a good hot grog. Eh, uncle?”
“Don’t want much to eat,” said Sargon. “No.”
“I haven’t forgotten that Welsh Rarebit you made for me, Mrs. Plumer, after I got caught in the rain on the way from Hythe.”
“Well, I daresay I could get you a Welsh Rarebit,” said Mrs. Plumer, softening visibly.
“Famous,” said Bobby. “Make a new man of him. And meanwhile I’ll run the old bike round to the shed. If I may put it in the shed? You’ll be all right here, uncle?”
“It’s safe?”