They partook of his last packet.
“I once heard a boy say,” said Henry solemnly, “that people who eat monkey-nuts get monkey puzzle trees growin’ out of their mouths.”
“I don’t s’pose,” said Ginger, as he swallowed his, “that jus’ a few could do it.”
“Anyway, it would be rather interestin’,” said William, “going about with a tree comin’ out of your mouth—you could slash things about with it.”
“But think of the orful pain,” said Henry dejectedly; “roots growin’ inside your stomach.”
Joan handed her monkey-nut back to William.
“I—I don’t think I’ll have one, thank you, William,” she said.
“All right,” said William, philosophically cracking it and putting it into his mouth. “I don’t mind eatin’ ’em. Let ’em start growin’ trees out of my stomach if they can.”
They were nearing a little old-fashioned sweetshop. A man in check trousers, shirt-sleeves, and a white apron stood in the doorway. Generally Mr. Moss radiated cheerfulness. To-day he looked depressed. They approached him somewhat guiltily.
“Well,” he said. “You coming to spend your Saturday money?”