Timothy and Rags now went to the pump, and Rags was held under the
spout. This was a new and bitter experience, and he wished for a few
brief moments that he had never joined the noble army of deserters, but
had stayed where dirt was fashionable. Being released, the sense of
abnormal cleanliness mounted to his brain, and he tore breathlessly
round in a circle seventy-seven times without stopping. But this only
dried his hair and amused Gay, who was beginning to find the basket
confining, and who clamored for "Timfy" to take her to "yide."
Timothy attended to himself last, as usual. He put his own head under
the pump, and scrubbed his face and hands heartily; wiping them on
his--well, he wiped them, and that is the main thing; besides, his
handkerchief had been reduced to a pulp in Gay's service. He combed his
hair, pulled up his stockings and tied his shoes neatly, buttoned his
jacket closely over his shirt, and was just pinning up the rent in his
hat, when Rags considerately brought another suggestion in the shape of
an old chicken-wing, with which he brushed every speck of dust from his
clothes. This done, and being no respecter of persons, he took the
family comb to Rags, who woke the echoes during the operation, and hoped
to the Lord that the squirrels would run slowly and that the field-mice
would be very tender, to pay him for this.
It was now nearly eight o'clock, and the party descended the hillside
and entered the side door of the station.
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