"You can't; just look at that slush."
"Slush! I'm not afraid of wet feet."
The touch of scorn was enough. Before Jean could move, Cyril was down, ankle-deep, in the very middle of the wet slush, which indeed proved to be of the nature of thick watery mud.
"Cyril! How absurd! I didn't mean you to go. I meant to do it myself. I should have gone to the stile, and climbed along the bank."
"You couldn't. It's all brambles."
Jean nearly said, "I don't mind scratches," but forbore. Had she uttered the words, he would certainly have charged the brambles, to gain scars honourable in her eyes.
"I'll come too." Jean loved a scramble.
"No, don't. Stop! It's no use. Such a mess! Wait a moment. Here he is—poor little chap! There, don't peck! What do you mean to do with him? I believe his leg's broken."
"Oh, bring him to me."
"All right, I'm coming."