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Updated: May 26, 2025
"He'd got his old billycock hat and his moleskin trousers and a flannel shirt dark blue and a red-wool muffler what I knitted him myself and made him wear because it was a cruel cold afternoon. And his socks was ginger-coloured. They was boughten socks from Mrs. Carslake's shop of all sorts. He was cranky all that day and using awful crooked words to me. I believe he knew he weren't coming back."
He had two of 'em darn' near out before they was rescued by their friends. "'Then, a few days later, along comes the pack again only this time they're being herded by the lad with the ginger-coloured whiskers.
And she sent son on ahead to get slightly acquainted with the wild life. He was a tall bent thing, about thirty, with a long squinted face and going hair, and soft, innocent, ginger-coloured whiskers, and hips so narrow they'd hardly hold his belt up. That rowdy mother of his, in trying to make a companion of him, had near scared him to death. He was permanently frightened.
His grey felt hat was stained and greasy; his ginger-coloured frieze overcoat threadbare at the elbows, thin and stringy in the skirts. The soles of his brown boots were splayed, the upper leathers seamed and cracked. This might denote poverty. It might, also, only denote carelessness and sloth.
And now I'm terrible afraid you must face the worst. I've made a beginning, I'm sorry to say." He drew a parcel from under his arm and laid out afore her the wreck of a water-sodden billycock hat, a rag of a dark-blue flannel shirt and one ginger-coloured sock in a pretty ruinous state. "What d'you make of these here mournful relics?" he asked.
I turned over one of the cushions, and with a cry of rage which I took no pains to suppress I seized upon what I found lying beneath: a blue linen blouse, Sir, a peaked cap, a ginger-coloured wig and beard! The villain! The abominable mountebank! The wretch! The . . . I was wellnigh choking with wrath. With the damning pieces of conviction in my hand, I rushed back into the inner room.
The hot dust scurried at the horses' retreating heels. Corporal Keyse, trudging staunchly in their wake with his five Town Guardsmen, became ghostlike, enveloped in an African replica of the ginger-coloured type of London fog. And the Mother-Superior looked at her well-worn watch. "My child, we must be moving if you are coming with me to the Women's Laager. I am nearly an hour late as it is."
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