I think this is most unfair to the boy at the bookstall.

The books are written by a gentleman named Gaboriau, and Albert's uncle says they are the worst translations in the world--and written in vile English.

Of course they're not like Kipling, but they're jolly good stories.

And we had just been reading a book by Dick Diddlington--that's not his right name, but I know all about libel actions, so I shall not say what his name is really, because his books are rot.

Only they put it into our heads to do what I am going to narrate.
It was in September, and we were not to go to the seaside because it is so expensive, even if you go to Sheerness, where it is all tin cans and old boots and no sand at all.