“I don’ care what you can see. I know what I do, don’ I? It’s my eye an’ I move it an’ I oughter be able to tell when I’m not movin’ it.... So there!”
He rolled both eyes at them fiercely as he departed.
William and Ginger went on together, stumping and clicking with great determination. Suddenly they both stopped.
On the footpath just outside a door that opened straight on to the street, stood a bath-chair. In it were a rug and a scarf.
“Here’s my bath-chair,” said William. “’S tirin’ walkin’ like this with a false leg all the time.”
He sat down in the chair with such a jerk that his horn-rimmed spectacles fell off. Though it was somewhat of a relief to see the world clearly, he missed the air of distinction that he imagined they imparted to him and, picking them up, adjusted them carefully on his nose. The sensation of being the possessor of both horn-rimmed spectacles and a false leg had been a proud and happy one. He wrapped the rug around his knees.
“You’d better push me a bit,” he said to Ginger. “’S not tirin’ havin’ false teeth. You oughter be the one to push.”
But Ginger, unlike William, was not quite lost in his rôle.
“It’s not our bath-chair. Someone’ll be comin’ out an’ makin’ a fuss if we start playin’ with it. Besides,” with some indignation, “how d’you know havin’ false teeth isn’t tirin’? Ever tried ’em? An’ let me tell you clickin’ is tirin’. It’s makin’ my jaws ache somethin’ terrible.”
“Oh, come on!” said William impatiently, “do stop talkin’ about your false teeth. Anyway it couldn’t rest your jaws ridin’ in a chair, could it? A chair couldn’t rest your jaw or your teeth, could it? Well, it could rest my false leg an’, anyway, we’ll only go a bit an’ whosever it is won’t miss it before we bring it back, an’ anyway I don’t suppose they mind lendin’ it to help a pore ole man with a false leg an’ another with false teeth.”