A look of set purpose came into William’s freckled face. “You stay here,” he whispered quickly, “an’ see they don’t take that card out of the window, an’ I’ll fetch the frame.”
Panting, he reappeared with the frame a few minutes later. Ginger’s presence had evidently prevented the disappearance of the card. An old man with a bald head and two pairs of spectacles examined the frame in silence, and in silence handed William half a crown. William and Ginger staggered out of the shop.
“Half a crown!” gasped William excitedly. “Crumbs!”
“I hope,” said Ginger, “you’ll remember who suggested you buying that frame.”
“An’ I hope,” said William, “that you’ll remember whose sixpence bought it.”
This verbal fencing was merely a form. It was a matter of course that William should share his half a crown with Ginger. The next shop was a pastry-cook’s. It was the type of pastry-cook’s that William’s mother would have designated as “common.” On a large dish in the middle of the window was a pile of sickly-looking yellow pastries full of sickly-looking yellow butter cream. William pressed his nose against the glass and his eyes widened.
“I say,” he said, “only a penny each. Come on in.”
They sat at a small marble-topped table, between them a heaped plate of the nightmare pastries, and ate in silent enjoyment. The plate slowly emptied. William ordered more. As he finished his sixth he looked up. His uncle was passing the window talking excitedly to Mr. Morrisse’s agent. Across the street a man was pasting up a poster, “Vote for Cheytor.” William regarded both with equal contempt. He took up his seventh penny horror and bit it rapturously.
“Fancy,” he said scornfully, “fancy people worryin’ about what bread costs.”