I saw them coming up the garden path very early in the morning, Jack in a sailor suit and Jill in a minute white frock. Their combined ages might have totalled nine—at a generous guess.
There was a furious ring at the door, and when I opened it a small brown hand was thrust in, full of flags, whose pins must have been very prickly to hold, while he of the sailor suit addressed me eagerly.
"Look! This sort's a penny. It's paper. And this sort's thruppence. It's real silk. Which'll you have?"
The hand held two silk and four paper flags. I took a silk one, and the girl nodded approval. "I think," said she, "the silk ones will wear better."
While I found my purse the boy had a sudden idea, which he instantly communicated with the sincere intention of doing the best he could for me. Said he, "You'd better have the bofe. You'll want one for your—for the father." And then he had a brighter thought still. "And the childrens. This paper kind would do for them. It's no use buying good ones for them, is it?"
"No, they're sure to lose them," agreed Jill. "You see, they're rather loose on their pins," she added with commercial candour.
"Else they wouldn't waggle properly," put in the boy hastily, in case I might be thinking this a defect.
"I'll take the lot," said I, "if you can tell me what it's all for."
"You c'n see," said Jack, "it's on the back of them," and he poked one round. "'For Woun-ded He-roes,'" he read out with pride and great deliberation.
"He can't read very well," said Jill, who was a wee bit jealous. "It doesn't mean dead. It only means wounded."