“William,” he said meekly, “I’m awfully sorry. It’s been sold. They thought it was meant for the rummage stall, an’ they’ve took it an’ sold it.”
William was speechless with indignation.
“Well,” he said at last, “you’ve gone an’ sold all my clothes—an’ now what do you think’s goin’ to happen to me? That’s jus’ wot I’d like to know, ’f you don’ mind tellin’ me. Wot’s goin’ to happen to me? P’raps as you’ve sold all my clothes, you’ll kin’ly tell me wot’s goin’ to happen to me, gettin’ colder an’ colder. P’raps you’d like me to freeze to death. How’m I goin’ to get home, an’ if I don’t get home how’m I goin’ to get anythin’ to eat, and if I don’t get anythin’ to eat, how’m I goin’ to live? I’m dyin’ of cold now. Well, I only hope you’ll be sorry then—then, when prob’ly you’ll be bein’ hung for murderin’ me.” William returned to earth from his flights of fancy. “Well, now, p’raps you’ll kin’ly get my clothes back.”
“WELL,” SAID WILLIAM STERNLY, “YOU’VE GONE
AND SOLD ALL MY CLOTHES—AN’ NOW WHAT DO YOU
THINK’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME? HOW’M I GOIN’
TO GET HOME?”
“How can I?” said Ginger, with the air of one goaded beyond endurance.
“Well, you can go an’ find out who bought ’em, I suppose—only you needn’t tell ’em whose they was.”
Again Ginger departed, and again the Ancient Briton sat shivering and gazing sternly and accusingly around the cave.
After a short interval Ginger appeared again, breathless with running.
“Mr. Groves bought it, William, from Wayside Cottage. I dunno how I’m to get ’em back, though, William.”