“You all right, Bobbie?”
or an—
“I'm afraid it's hurting you most awfully, Jim. I AM so sorry.”
And it was very cold.
* * * * * *
Peter and Phyllis tramped down the long way of the tunnel towards daylight, the candle-grease dripping over Peter's fingers. There were no accidents unless you count Phyllis's catching her frock on a wire, and tearing a long, jagged slit in it, and tripping over her bootlace when it came undone, or going down on her hands and knees, all four of which were grazed.
“There's no end to this tunnel,” said Phyllis—and indeed it did seem very very long.
“Stick to it,” said Peter; “everything has an end, and you get to it if you only keep all on.”
Which is quite true, if you come to think of it, and a useful thing to remember in seasons of trouble—such as measles, arithmetic, impositions, and those times when you are in disgrace, and feel as though no one would ever love you again, and you could never—never again—love anybody.
“Hurray,” said Peter, suddenly, “there's the end of the tunnel—looks just like a pin-hole in a bit of black paper, doesn't it?”