He laid violent hands on Harry, who was, however, far too slippery to hold. He was free in a minute and dashed into the outer kitchen, slamming the door after him.
When Tom came in he was sitting tailor-fashion on the table, gnawing the top of a cottage loaf. The elder brother could not help laughing at him, he looked such a queer goblin creature.
“Doan’t be vrothered, Tom,” whined Harry, taking advantage of his relenting—“it’s your last night at home.”
Tom winced—they were always throwing it at him, his “last night.”
“Lucky fur you as it is—and unlucky fur me—and unlucky fur Worge if this is the way you’re going on when I’m a-gone. Where’ve you bin?”
“Only over to Bucksteep, Tom.”
“But wot have you done wud your clothes?”
“Mus’ Archie’s got ’em.”
“Wot d’you mean? Spik the truth.”
“It’s Bible truth. Willie and Peter Sinden and Bob Pix and me thought as how we’d bathe by moonlight in Bucksteep pond, and Mus’ Archie’s hoame on leave, and he wur walking wud his young woman in the paddock, and he sawed us, and took all our cloathes whiles we wur in the water. He thought as how he’d got us then, and that we couldn’t git away wudout our cloathes. But he’s found he’s wrong, fur we climbed up the far bank into Throws Wood, and ran hoame.”