“Oh! I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Jack, who was considerably in advance of the others in regard to education, “we’ll turn him into Joan of Arc.”
“What’s Joan of Arc?” asked Job.
“It isn’t a what—it’s a who,” cried Jack, laughing.
“Is it like Noah’s Ark?” inquired Dolly.
“No, no; it’s a lady who lived in France, an’ thought she was sent to deliver her country from—from—I don’t know all what, an’ put on men’s clo’es an’ armour, an’ went out to battle, an’ was burnt.”
“Bu’nt!” shouted Dolly, with sparkling eyes; “oh, what fun!—We’re goin’ to bu’n you, Pompey.” They called him by Lilly Blythe’s name.
Dumps, who sat in a confused heap in a corner, panting, seemed regardless of the fate that awaited him.
“But where shall we find armour?” said Harry.
“I know,” exclaimed Job, going to the fireplace, and seizing the lid of a saucepan which stood on the hearth near enough to the tall fender to be within reach, “here’s somethin’.”
“Capital—a breastplate! Just the thing!” cried Jack, seizing it, and whistling to Dumps.