The kids stopped howling and looked at Myra hopefully. They sensed that she was on their side.
“And why don’t you want them shined?” Myra demanded. “Just look at them! They’re like exhumed coffins.”
Bogle loosened his collar. “I don’t care what they look like. I don’t want them shined,” he said, furiously. “If I want them shined, I’ll shine ’em myself.”
“How ridiculous!” Myra said. “I think you’re just being mean. You don’t want to pay these kids to shine your shoes. You want them to do it for nothing.”
Bogle picked up his pewter mug and flattened it between his hands. “I’ve changed my mind about having my shoes shined,” he said with a hiss.
“Changed your mind?” Myra repeated. “Who did you find crazy enough to swap with you?”
Bogle flexed his fingers. He seemed to have developed acute asthma.
“There’s no need to lose our tempers,” Ansell joined in, soothingly. “If Bogle doesn’t want his shoes shined, then there’s nothing more to be said. We came out because we thought someone was being hurt. Come along, Myra, well go back to our meal.”
“You might do those kids a lot of harm if you frustrate them,” Myra said warmly. “Haven’t you ever heard of repression?”
Bogle blinked at her.