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"Gi'e my back a bit of a wesh," he asked her.
His wife brought a well-soaped flannel and clapped it on his shoulders.
He gave a jump.
"Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy!" he cried. "Cowd as death!"
"You ought to have been a salamander," she laughed, washing his back. It
was very rarely she would do anything so personal for him. The children
did those things.
"The next world won't be half hot enough for you," she added.
"No," he said; "tha'lt see as it's draughty for me."
But she had finished. She wiped him in a desultory fashion, and went
upstairs, returning immediately with his shifting-trousers. When he was
dried he struggled into his shirt. Then, ruddy and shiny, with hair on
end, and his flannelette shirt hanging over his pit-trousers, he stood
warming the garments he was going to put on. He turned them, he pulled
them inside out, he scorched them.
"Goodness, man!" cried Mrs. Morel, "get dressed!"
"Should thee like to clap thysen into britches as cowd as a tub o'
water?" he said.


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