No breastplate at all. Simple leather strap
across the breast--like the Russians. Hi! Jack never thought of _that!_
MRS. G. (_Entering hastily, her hand bound in a cloth._) Oh, Pip,
I've scalded my hand over that horrid, horrid Tiparee jam!
CAPT. G. (_Absently._) Eh! Wha-at?
MRS. G. (_With round-eyed reproach._) I've scalded it _aw_-fully!
Aren't you sorry? And I _did_ so want that jam to jam properly.
CAPT. G. Poor little woman! Let me kiss the place and make it well.
(_Unrolling bandage._) You small sinner! Where's that scald? I can't
see it.
MRS. G. On the top of the little finger. There!--It's a most 'normous
big burn!
CAPT. G. (_Kissing little finger._) Baby! Let Hyder look after the
jam. You know I don't care for sweets.
MRS. G. In-deed?--Pip!
CAPT. G. Not of that kind, anyhow. And now run along, Minnie, and leave
me to my own base devices. I'm busy.
MRS. G. (_Calmly settling herself in long chair._) So I see. What a
mess you're making! Why have you brought all that smelly leather stuff
into the house?
CAPT. G. To play with. Do you mind, dear?
MRS. G. Let _me_ play too.
Pages:
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230