Supremely tempted, Sparkin had fished out a periwig and clapped it on his head. He pulled it off again just as briskly, merely remarking that “the thing tickled.” A second dive of the arm brought up a black cloak edged with gold cord and lined with purple silk.
“Bring that here, boy.”
Sparkin obeyed, and John Gore swung it over his shoulders.
“Just your color, captain,” said the boy, seriously.
“Thanks for a valuable opinion. Well, put it aside with the shirts and stockings I have chosen. The devil take you, but what a fearsome mess you have made!”
“That’s soon mended, captain.” And, after depositing the black cloak on the bed, he proceeded to fill his arms with my lord’s luxuries, and tumble them casually into chest and cupboard.
“Here, leave the clothes alone.”
“But—”
“You had better, out of regard for those new breeches of yours. Richards must come up and restore order.”
A spasm of vivacious devilry lit up the boy’s face.