He shook the articles out on the counter, and the baker’s wife, who had just come into the shop, inspected them rather favourably.
“Poor boy, so you’ve lost your mother,” she said, turning the clothes over. “It’s a good skirt, Bill.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Tommy dolefully.
“What did she die of?” inquired the baker.
“Scarlet fever,” said Tommy, tearfully, mentioning the only disease he knew.
“Scar—Take them things away,” yelled the baker, pushing the clothes on to the floor, and following his wife to the other end of the shop. “Take ’em away directly, you young villain.”
His voice was so loud, his manner so imperative, that the startled boy, without stopping to argue, stuffed the clothes pell-mell into the bag again and departed. A farewell glance at the clock made him look almost as horrified as the baker.
“There’s no time to be lost,” he muttered, as he began to run; “either the old man’ll have to come in these or else stay where he is.”
He reached the house breathless, and paused before an unshaven man in time-worn greasy clothes, who was smoking a short clay pipe with much enjoyment in front of the door.
“Is Cap’n Bross here?” he panted.