“No, sir.”
Salim Awad began to breathe again; his eyes, too, returned to their normal size, their usual place.
“No,” the cook observed. “’Tis wise not to. You isn’t able for it, lad. Now, you sees what comes o’ not mindin’ your dad.”
The jacket and boots were tossed back. Tommy resumed the jacket.
“Tommy,” said the cook, severely, “isn’t you got no more sense ’n that?”
“Please, sir,” Tommy whispered, “I forgot.”
“Oh, did you! Did you forget? I’m thinkin’, Tommy, I hasn’t been bringin’ of you up very well.”
Tommy stripped himself to his rosy skin. He wrung the water out of his soggy garments and with difficulty got into them again.
“You better be jumpin’ about a bit by times,” the cook advised, “or you’ll be cotchin’ cold. An’ your mamma wouldn’t like that,” he concluded, “if she ever come t’ hear on it.”
“Ay, sir; please, sir,” said the boy.