“An’ callin’ my clothes mouldy,” said William, with equal indignation. “My clothes mouldy.”
“She lives here,” said Ginger.
From the shelter of a hedge they watched the house.
“You’d better go an’ gettem then,” said William unfeelingly.
“How?” said Ginger.
“Well, you sold ’em.”
“I didn’t sell ’em.”
“Sh! Look!”
The door of the Johnson’s home was opening. A small boy came out.
“He’s dressed in my clothes,” said William excitedly. “Gettem—Gettim—my clothes.” His eye brightened, and into his face came a radiant look as of one beholding some dear friend after a long absence. “My clothes.”