William sighed.
“I’d better come with you,” he said wearily. “’Sides, I shall prob’ly get froze into a glacier or something if I stay in here any more.”
The Ancient Briton gazed furtively around from the cave door, without that bravado and swagger generally displayed by Bill the Smuggler. The coast was clear. The two boys crept out.
“When I get to the road, I’ll crawl on my stomach in the ditch like as if I were a smuggler, then no one’ll see me.”
Ginger walked dejectedly along the road, while the Ancient Briton made a slow and very conspicuous progress in the ditch beside him—ejaculating irascibly as he went:
“Well, I’ve jus’ done with smugglers an’ with Anshunt Britons. I’ll never look at another smuggler or a Nanshunt Briton while I live—’n if you hadn’t been so jolly clever runnin’ off with other people’s clothes, an’ sellin’ ’em, I shouldn’t be crawlin’ along an’ scratchin’ myself, an’ cuttin’ myself, an’ eatin’ mud. Now,” in a voice of pure wonder, “how did Anshunt Britons get about? I don’t know—all shiverin’ with cold an’ scratchin’ themselves an’ cuttin’ themselves——”
Wayside Cottage was, fortunately for the Ancient Briton, on the outskirts of the village. The front door was conveniently open. There was a small garden in front, and a longer garden behind, with a little corrugated iron building at the end.
“Come on,” said William. “Let’s go an’ get ’em back.”
“Are you goin’ to ask him for ’em?” said Ginger.