“Stud?” ses Lewis, very snappish. “I’m looking for my trowsis.”
“Your trowsis?” ses Smith, ’elping ’im look.
“I put all my clothes together,” ses Lewis, a’most shouting. “Where are they? I’m ’arf perished with cold. Where are they?”
“He ’ad ’em on this evening,” ses Bob Pretty, “’cos I remember noticing ’em.”
“They must be somewhere about,” ses Mr. Cutts; “why don’t you use your eyes?”
He walked up and down, peering about, and as for Lewis he was ’opping round ’arf crazy.
“I wonder,” ses Bob Pretty, in a thoughtful voice, to Smith—“I wonder whether you or Mr. Cutts kicked ’em in the pond while you was struggling with me. Come to think of it, I seem to remember ’earing a splash.”
“He’s done it, Mr. Cutts,” ses Smith; “never mind, it’ll go all the ’arder with ’im.”
“But I do mind,” ses Lewis, shouting. “I’ll be even with you for this, Bob Pretty. I’ll make you feel it. You wait till I’ve done with you. You’ll get a month extra for this, you see if you don’t.”
“Don’t you mind about me,” ses Bob; “you run off ’ome and cover up them legs of yours. I found that sack, so my conscience is clear.”