Now we mean to dry your clothes by the aid of this nice fire, and after that we'll see you get home.

Here are your little playmates, you see.

You can thank them for screaming, because only for that we might not have come up in time." The boy allowed his hand to run up and down his other wet sleeve.
"Dem's my Sunday-best clo's, too.

Mebbe mommy she won't whale me fo' gettin' dem all soaked like this," he muttered to himself disconsolately.
"Don't you worry about that," chuckled Thad, who had overheard the childish complaint.

"Your mother, whoever she may be, will be so thankful that she hasn't lost her boy she'll forgive you anything.