“What about towels?” Bert got up, letting Nick subside violently against the steps.
“We can dry off on the float,” said Ted. “Come on. All in!”
Nick, rubbing the back of his head, arose with groans and protests and draped himself against Pop Driver.
“Nick wants to be carried,” he whimpered. “Pop, please carry Nick. He’s so ’ittle!”
Pop complacently gathered the other in his big arms and bore him away around the corner of the house, Nick babbling nonsense. “Pop likes to carry his ’ittle Nick, doesn’t he? Pop loves his ’ittle Nick.”
“Pop loves him to death,” grunted Pop, depositing him suddenly in a barberry hedge. There arose a piercing wail from Nick as he came into contact with the thorns, the sound of cracking shrubbery and the thud of Pop’s feet as he hurried off into the darkness.
“Oh, you big brute!” shouted Nick. “You wait till I get hold of you! I’m full of stickers! Which way did that big, ugly hippopotamus go, Ted?”
“Straight on into the engulfing gloom,” answered Bert. “Look out for that clothes-line, Nick.”
“Pop!” called Nick sweetly. “Pop, come back to me, darling! Honest, Pop, I haven’t a thing in my hands! I just want to love you!”
“I’m busy,” responded Pop from the darkness ahead. “I got some of those old thorns myself.”