“He’s not troubling me at all, Mrs. Moroney,” Jim assured her. “He’s an awfully friendly little chap. Does it matter if he has cakes?”
The question savoured of shutting the stable-door after the stealing of the steed. Timsy ate his cake hurriedly, lest disaster await him in the answer.
“There’s nothing he doesn’t eat,” said his mother resignedly. “But I’d not let him annoy you, sir.”
“There was no cake in the kitchen!” said Timsy, fixing reproachful eyes on his parent. “How would I have me tea, an’ no cake?”
“Cock you up with cake!” returned Mrs. Moroney, spiritedly. “Well able to go without it you are, for once in a while.” She relented before her son’s appealing gaze. “Come away, then, and let Bridget wash you: sure, she’s screaming all over the place after you.”
Timsy hesitated, regarding Jim with affection.
“Can I come back some time?” he demanded.
“Of course you can,” said Jim.
The small boy climbed down slowly.
“I’m destroyed with washin’,” he complained. “ ’Tis only at dinner-time she had me all soaped. An’ I hate shoes . . .” The voice of his lamentations died away as his mother swept him from the room.