Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. “Where were you?” He inquired, rubbing her shoulders. I don’t think that the rest of the people here like us very well, do they, Arthur, so we’re obliged to be friends. He cannot. It was a “territory” back then, and many a Frenchman and a Redskin both had been devoured in those caves.
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