“You mean to tell me as you’ve come in your skin all the way from Bucksteep?”
Harry nodded, and laughed at some Puckish memory.
“Well, all I wonder is as you wurn’t took and put in gaol—you would have been if policeman had met you—and you’ll catch your death of cold.”
He pulled off his coat and most ungently bundled Harry into it. Then another idea struck him. He groaned, and scratched his head.
“I must write to Mus’ Archie this wunst.”
“Why, Tom?”
“To git your clothes back. We can’t afford to lose a good suit of clothes.”
He turned wearily to the cupboard, and took out a penny ink-bottle, a pen, and some cheap writing-paper.
“Tom—he’ll know it wur me if you write.”