CHAPTER XIII.
The Monday after the loss of the pence was a pouring wet day. The
whole court was like a flood, and the drops went splashing up again
as if in play; Purday wore his master's old southwester coat, and
looked shiny all over; and when the maids had to cross the court,
they went click, click, in their pattens under their umbrellas.
But it was baking day, and Susan and Annie had been down to coax the
cook into making them a present of a handsome allowance of dough, and
Miss Fosbrook into letting them manipulate it in the school-room.
Probably this was the only way of preventing the dough from being
turned into bullets, and sent flying at each other's eyes, or
possibly plastered on somebody's nose, and the cook and kitchenmaid
from being nearly driven crazy.
The dough was justly divided, and an establishment set up in each
locker. Bessie declined altogether; Sam had lent her his beautiful
book of The British Songsters, and she was hard at work at the table
copying a tom-tit, since she no longer carried on the work in secret;
but at one locker were the other three elders, at the other the three
lesser ones, and little George in a corner by Susan, pegging away at
his own private lump, and constantly begging for more.
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