My brothers and I were hanging over the gate that barred our way to the outer world, and singing, as loudly as we could, considering the pressure of the top bar on our young stomachs. We sang to keep warm, for Mrs. Handsomebody had decreed that no reefers were to be worn till the first of December. So, though November was raw, she maintained her discipline and refused to mollycoddle us.
It was the fifth, and Angel chanted in that flute-like treble of his, that made passersby turn and smile at him:
"Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot—"
Then The Seraph added his little pipe:
"I see no weason why gunpowder tweason
Should ever be forgot."
Then we shouted it all together.
Our neighbour, Mr. Mortimer Pegg, who had never forgiven us for our share in the treasure
[99]
