“Sick of ’em?” echoed William. “I only wish I’d gottem to be sick of. I’m jus’ about sick of not havin’ ’em an’ walkin’ about on prickles an’ stones and scratchin’ myself an’ shiverin’ with cold. That boy’d jus’ better wait till I get my clothes an’ then——” His eyes gleamed darkly with visions of future vengeance.
“Well,” he turned to Ginger, “an’ wot we goin’ to do now?”
“Dunno,” said Ginger despondently.
“Well, where’s Johnsons?”
“Mrs. Johnson’s my aunt’s charwoman,” said Ginger, wearily. “I know where she lives.”
William rose with a determined air.
“Come on,” he said.
“If we don’t gettem this time,” said Ginger, as they started on their furtive journey, “I’m going home.”
“Oh, are you,” said William sternly. “Well, then, you’re goin’ in this Anshunt Briton thing an’ I’m goin’ in your clothes. You lost my clothes an’ if you can’t gettem back you can give me yours, that’s fair, isn’t it?”
“Oh, shut up,” said Ginger, in the tone of one who has suffered all that it is possible to suffer and can suffer no more. “It’s that five shillings that I keep thinkin’ of—five shillin’s—an’ all for nothin’.”