'
Cyril and Robert led him to a rocky pool, where he bathed
luxuriously. Then, in shirt and trousers he sat on the sand and
spoke.
'That cook, or queen, or whatever you call her--her with the white
bokay on her 'ed--she's my sort. Wonder if she'd keep company!'
'I should ask her.'
'I was always a quick hitter,' the man went on; 'it's a word and a
blow with me. I will.'
In shirt and trousers, and crowned with a scented flowery wreath
which Cyril hastily wove as they returned to the court of the
queen, the burglar stood before the cook and spoke.
'Look 'ere, miss,' he said. 'You an' me being' all forlorn-like,
both on us, in this 'ere dream, or whatever you calls it, I'd like
to tell you straight as I likes yer looks.'
The cook smiled and looked down bashfully.
'I'm a single man--what you might call a batcheldore. I'm mild in
my 'abits, which these kids'll tell you the same, and I'd like to
'ave the pleasure of walkin' out with you next Sunday.'
'Lor!' said the queen cook, ''ow sudden you are, mister.'
'Walking out means you're going to be married,' said Anthea. 'Why
not get married and have done with it? _I_ would.'
'I don't mind if I do,' said the burglar. But the cook said--
'No, miss. Not me, not even in a dream. I don't say anythink
ag'in the young chap's looks, but I always swore I'd be married in
church, if at all--and, anyway, I don't believe these here savages
would know how to keep a registering office, even if I was to show
them.
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