“Very likely they’re glad to get rid of me,” argued Bobbie. “It’ll be a saving to them of pounds a year, and besides—”
“Tell you what you could do,” said Master Niedermann, looking at him thoughtfully, “and that too without no trouble. You see this coat and weskit of mine.”
“I see what there’s left of ’em.”
“Swop!” said the long youth walking with Bobbie down towards the railway arch. “These what I’ve got are a bit short for me, because I’m a grown lad, as you may see. But they’ll suit you a treat, and, besides, if they circulate your description, no one in these togs ’ll recognize you for a moment.”
“Wouldn’t see me if I was to get inside of ’em.”
“I think you’re wrong,” said Niedermann patiently. “What did you say the address was that you’ve run away from?” Bobbie gave the information. “I shall remember.”
“You’ve no call to remember,” said the boy sharply.
“I carry it all ’ere,” said Master Niedermann darkly, tapping his unwashed forehead; “regular store’ouse of information my brain is.”
“What makes you call it a brain?” asked Bobbie.
“Do you particularly want your ’ead punched?” asked Master Niedermann fiercely. “Because, if so, you’ve only got to say the word, and—” He recovered himself with an effort. “But putting all argument a one side,” he said genially, “you try on my coat and see how it fits.”