“Yes, you and the dog. You’re both too dirty to live.”
Brick made a bolt for the door, but Titus got there before him and locked it.
“No use to kick,” he said, grimly. “You’re a likely-looking boy, and you’re a fool to tramp it. I’m going to keep you here for a while and try to make you halfway decent.”
Brick went down on his knees. “O, lordy massy, don’t wash me, young sah.”
Titus calmly took him by his collar. “Dallas, you’ll help me.”
The English boy looked down at his handsome suit of clothes; however, he assented quietly.
“All right,” said Titus, with a nod of understanding and good-fellowship, “I thought you would. Go in the house and get some old clothes of mine from my closet—not too old, mind—and a comb and brush and some decent soap and towels—lots of ’em; and on your way here dash across the back way to Charlie Brown’s and get him to bring over that bathtub he uses for his Newfoundland dog. O, before you go,” he called, as Dallas was leaving the room, “turn on the heat.”
Dallas went over to a radiator in the corner, then hurried away.
Titus continued to hold Brick, who did not cease for one single minute to beg and pray for release.
“You shan’t go,” said Titus, inexorably, “you dirty little beast. I’ve taken a fancy to you. You’ve got to stay here and be our stable boy, and you sha’nt be our stable boy till you’re clean. I tell you, Roblee would chuck you out in the snow. He’s cleaner than I am.”