Chapter Seven

ARABIAN NIGHTS FOR TURGIS

«^r T'ERSH," said Mr. Pelumpton, staring at Tnrgis

Y and pulling hard at his little pipe, which re-

JL plied with a sickening gurgle, "yersh, that'sh
what you want, boy, shome short of 'obby, to parsh the
time-shee?"

'That's right," cried little Mrs. Pelumpton, sitting
down but only on the edge of the chair to show that this
was a mere breathing space in the long battle with beds
and stairs and dirty plates and potatoes and legs of
mutton. "You oughter get out of yourself more, Mr.
Turgis—if you catch my meaning. That's what you're
telling him, isn't it?"

"Yersh," said Mr. Pelumpton, who was busy now
poking at his pipe with a very large hairpin.

"Oh—I dunno," said Turgis, vaguely and mournfully.

"Look at Edgar," Mrs. Pelumpton continued.

" "What with 'arriering-y'know, a lot of 'em all running

together, miles and miles, and not as much on as you

might go in the water with if you was at the seaside-

though he 'asn't done much of that lately—"

"Don't blame him," Turgis muttered, shuddering.
The last thing on earth he wanted was to be a harrier,
who not only ran and ran until he nearly dropped but
also contrived to look silly. Ugh!