“Do you what?”
“Have to eat a peck of dirt before you die?”
Peter wriggled his toes in his shoes and looked down to see them moving. “Don’t know. You and I don’t. But that’s what Glory says.”
Having learnt to walk like a boy, Kay learnt to whistle. One hot summer’s afternoon they had ridden out and were lying on their backs in a field tall with grass, nearly ready for cutting. Peter had almost drowsed with the heavy smell of the wild flowers, when he sat up suddenly and seized his sister by the arm quite roughly. She was only whistling a little tune softly and was surprised at the strength he used.
“Peterkins, what’s the matter? You’re hurting. I’m sure you’ve made a bruise.”
He paid no attention to her protest. “Where’d you learn that?”
“What?”
“That tune you were whistling?”
“Don’t know. Just made it up, I suppose. I never heard it.”
“But you must have.”