"Can't say, only I hear it's bought for a brewery, to be took down next year."
"Oh, criky!" said Tom; "that's a pity."
There was a short pause.
"I saw you 'ide your 'at," said Anne Evans.
"Not 'ide it," said Tom; "only sits on it—always sits on my 'at."
Tom produced it, let it bounce up like a jack-in-a-box, and shut it down again.
Miss Evans was neither amused nor surprised.
"Them's hopera 'ats—first quality—they used to come in boxes on 'em, as long as from here to you, when I was at Mr. Potterton's, the hatter. Them's for gents—they air—and not for servants."
"The gov'nor gives me his old uns," said Tom, producing the best fib he could find.
"And them French boots," she added, meditatively.