“What’s a game?” I demanded.
“Why—oh, ain’t you a flat, though?—why, them there boots!”
“What boots? Why can’t you talk sense?”
“Why, that there bloke’s boots. When I was a-shinin’ of ’em, if the sole of one on ’em don’t come clean off!” he cried, with a grin.
“I don’t see anything so very amusing in that,” I replied.
“He’s gone off to get ’em sewed on,” continued the boy, beaming all over; “and he’s a-coming back this way to show me. Bless you, they’ll never sew that there sole on. The upper wouldn’t hold it—you see if it does.”
“He will have to get a new pair,” I said.
“Why, he ain’t got the browns. He’s a-saving up, but it’ll be a month afore he’s got the brass.”
Here Billy positively laughed, so that I felt strongly inclined to give him a box on the ear for his levity.
“And it’s been a-rainin’ all day,” continued he, jocularly “and the streets is all one marsh of muck.”