“It’ll never come off,” said Tom; “and it’s my new jacket, too! Mason pushed me against the door.”
“Well,” said the Professor, “there’s no use crying over spilt milk.”
“Oh,” said Pip, “is it milk in the paint that makth it so white?”
“Nonsense, Pip! The thing to do now is to get the paint off Tom’s coat. Who knows how to do it?”
“Don’t fink anybody duth,” said Pip.
“Hold out your arm,” said the Professor. And, with the sleeve of his own coat, he briskly rubbed the sleeve of Tom’s; and away went the spot of paint in a jiffy.
“He’s wubbed it onto his own thleeve,” said Pip.
But no; the Professor’s sleeve was as clean as Tom’s.
“Where ith it went to?” said Pip. “Oh, nurse! Ithn’t that thingler?”
“I say,” said Bob, “you couldn’t have got it off if it had dried on your coat.”