The cabby obeyed. Having already received his instructions he did not drive home. Where he drove to is a matter of small consequence. It was to an unknown house, and a perfect stranger to Sammy opened the door. Mrs Twitter remained in the cab while Sammy and his father entered the house, the latter carrying a bundle in his hand. They were shown into what the boy must have considered—if he considered anything at all just then—a preposterously small room.
The lady of the house evidently expected them, for she said, “The bath is quite ready, sir.”
“Now, Sammy,—dear boy,” said Mr Twitter, “off with your rags—and g–git into that b–bath.”
Obviously Mr Twitter did not speak with ease. In truth it was all he could do to contain himself, and he felt that his only chance of bearing up was to say nothing more than was absolutely necessary in short ejaculatory phrases. Sammy was deeply touched, and began to wash his dirty face with a few quiet tears before taking his bath.
“Now then, Sammy—look sharp! You didn’t use—to—be—so—slow! eh?”
“No, father. I suppose it—it—is want of habit. I haven’t undressed much of late.”
This very nearly upset poor Mr Twitter. He made no reply, but assisted his son to disrobe with a degree of awkwardness that tended to delay progress.
“It—it’s not too hot—eh?”
“Oh! no, father. It’s—it’s—v–very nice.”
“Go at it with a will, Sammy. Head and all, my boy—down with it. And don’t spare the soap. Lots of soap here, Sammy—no end of soap!”