“Anything,” replied the boy with emphasis, “from pitch and toss to manslaughter!”
“Well, look here. You know Eve Mooney?”
“Do I know the blessedest angel in all Gorleston? In course I does. Wot of her?”
“She’s ill—very ill,” said Lumpy.
“You might as well tell me, when it’s daytime, that the sun’s up,” returned Pat.
“Don’t be so awful sharp, Stiver, else I’ll have to snub you.”
“Which you’ve on’y got to frown, Bob Lumpy, an’ the deed’s done.”
Bob gave a short laugh, and then proceeded to explain matters to his friend: how he had been saving up his wages for some time past to buy a second-hand bath-chair for Eve, because the doctor had said it would do her so much good, especially if backed up with good victuals.
“It’s the wittles as bothers me, Stiver,” said Bob, regarding his friend with a puzzled expression.
“H’m! well,” returned the small boy seriously, “wittles has bothered me too, off an’ on, pretty well since I was born, though I’m bound to confess I does get a full blow-out now an’—”