“Fightin’ the Gair-mins. They’s bad—they’s after hurtin’ him in the laig.”
“Did they?” said Wally, sympathetically. “Poor daddy! Is he better?”
“He is. He’s goin’ to shoot me some.”
“Is he, now? Will he bring them home?”
“I dunno will he. I asked the postman, an’ he said daddy couldn’t post ’em.”
“That wasn’t nice of the postman,” said Jim. “What would you do with them if you got them?”
“Frow fings at ’em,” said Timsy, valiantly.
“Good man!” said Jim. “We’ll have you in the trenches before the war’s over, I expect. Another cake, old chap?”
Timsy accepted the cake graciously, digging his white teeth into it with appreciation.
“I’m after having me tea,” he confided. “An’ Bridget said there wasn’t any cake. But there’s lots.” His eye swept the table.