"Well, I don't know what he's got to be mad about.... I didn't make him sit down on it, did I? He talks about me spoilin' his trousers—well, wot about him spoilin' my liquorice? All I say is—who wants to eat it, now he's been sittin' on it?"
Robert had unkindly taken this statement at its face value and thrown the offending stick of liquorice into the fire.
William sadly extricated himself from the char-à-banc, thinking bitterly of the vanished twopence, and liquorice, and the excellent meal to be obtained from the village inn. He regarded himself at that moment as a martyr whose innocence and unjust persecution equalled that of any in the pages of the Church History book.
An elderly lady in pince-nez looked at him pityingly.
"What's the matter, little boy?" she said. "You look unhappy."
William merely smiled bitterly.
"Is your mother with you?" she went on.
"Nope," said William, thrusting his hands into his pockets and scowling still more.
"Your father, then?"
"Huh!" said William, as though bitterly amused at the idea.