"Oh dear no, of course not," said auntie. "It is quite different here from at home. People only come to stay a short time, they wouldn't care to be troubled with big gardens."
"I don't mind," said Fritz amiably, "if only it's big enough for us to have a corner to dig in, and somewhere to play in when Lisa's in a fussy humour."
"Mine child," said Lisa mildly. Poor Lisa, she was not a very fussy person! Indeed she was rather too easy for such lively young people as Fritz and Denny.
"And do you want a garden, too, very much, Baby?" said auntie.
Baby had hardly heard what they were saying. His mind was still running on the shiny jugs and the blue-eyed little girl.
"Him wants gate lots of pennies," he said, which didn't seem much of an answer to auntie's question.
"Lots of pennies, my little man," said auntie. "What do you want lots of pennies for?"
But Baby would not tell.
Just then they saw coming towards them in the street two very funny looking men. They had no hats or caps on their heads, so the children could see that they had no hair either, at least none on the top, where it was shaved quite off, and only a sort of fringe all round left. Then they had queer loose brown coats, with big capes, something like grandfather's Inverness cloak, Fritz thought, and silver chains hanging down at their sides, and, queerest of all, no stockings or proper boots or shoes, only things like the soles of shoes strapped on to their bare feet. These were called sandals, auntie said, and she told the boys that these funny looking men were monks, "Franciscans," she said they were called. They all lived together, and they never kept any money, and people said—but auntie thought that was not quite true—that they never washed themselves.
"Nasty dirty men," said Fritz, making a face. "I shouldn't like to be a Franciscan."