“I’m afraid my behaviour was rather strange when I first met you,” she said stiffly. “My excuse must be that I am not accustomed to being lost, and the experience had—er—slightly unbalanced me.”
“You were cracked as an over-ripe watermelon,” he sneered, “and are still, for all I know.” He lounged on his elbow, smoking a pipe of atrocious tobacco.
“At any rate I thank you for your hospitality,” said she, longing to box his ears instead.
“Pugh! What I want to know is where you come from and whereabouts you left your party, hey?”
“My party?”
“Yes; the waggons you got lost from.”
Something inspired her to leave it at that, and answer quietly:
“Our last stopping-place was Palapye.”
“Palapye! Why, that’s ten days’ trek from here.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I was at Palapye three days ago—two days before I lost myself.”