Such a business as he made of collecting it from his dogs’-eared pockets; of expecting it in this pocket, and not finding it; of not expecting it in that pocket, and passing it over; of finding no pocket where that other pocket ought to be!
“Is this all?” demanded the person of the house, when a confused heap of pence and shillings lay on the table.
“Got no more,” was the rueful answer, with an accordant shake of the head.
“Let me make sure. You know what you’ve got to do. Turn all your pockets inside out, and leave ’em so!” cried the person of the house.
He obeyed. And if anything could have made him look more abject or more dismally ridiculous than before, it would have been his so displaying himself.
“Here’s but seven and eightpence halfpenny!” exclaimed Miss Wren, after reducing the heap to order. “Oh, you prodigal old son! Now you shall be starved.”
“No, don’t starve me,” he urged, whimpering.
“If you were treated as you ought to be,” said Miss Wren, “you’d be fed upon the skewers of cats’ meat;—only the skewers, after the cats had had the meat. As it is, go to bed.”
When he stumbled out of the corner to comply, he again put out both his hands, and pleaded: “Circumstances over which no control—”
“Get along with you to bed!” cried Miss Wren, snapping him up. “Don’t speak to me. I’m not going to forgive you. Go to bed this moment!”