“M’rry Kissm’s, ol’ man, but don’ waken me. What’s use o’ gettin’ up?”
“The use?” echoed Tom, proceeding rapidly with his toilet; “why, Ned, the use of rising early is that it enables a man to get through with his work in good time, and I’ve a deal of work to do to-day at the east-end.”
“So ’v’ I,” murmured Ned, “at th’ wes’ end.”
“Indeed. What are you going to do?”
“Sk–t.”
“Sk–t? What’s that?”
“Skate—ol’ man, let m’ ’lone,” growled Ned, as he uncoiled himself to some extent and re-arranged the bundle for another snooze.
With a light laugh Tom Westlake left his brother to enjoy his repose, and descended to the breakfast-room, where his sister Matilda, better known as Matty, met him with a warm reception.
Everything that met him in that breakfast-parlour was warm. The fire, of course, was warm, and it seemed to leap and splutter with a distinctly Christmas morning air; the curtains and carpets and arm-chairs were warm and cosy in aspect; the tea-urn was warm, indeed it was hot, and so were the muffins, while the atmosphere itself was unusually warm. The tiny thermometer on the chimney-piece told that it was 65 degrees of Fahrenheit. Outside, the self-registering thermometer indicated 5 degrees below zero!
“Why, Matty,” exclaimed Tom, as he looked frowningly at the instrument, “I have not seen it so low as that for years. It will freeze the Thames if it lasts long enough.”