“That’s not our doing, you know,” said Anthea gently.
“And bringing me here without any waterproof or anything,” said the Psammead still more crossly, “when everyone knows how damp and foggy Ancient Britain was.”
“Here, take my coat,” said Robert, taking it off. Anthea spread the coat on the ground and, putting the Psammead on it, folded it round so that only the eyes and furry ears showed.
“There,” she said comfortingly. “Now if it does begin to look like rain, I can cover you up in a minute. Now what are we to do?”
The others who had stopped holding hands crowded round to hear the answer to this question. Imogen whispered in an awed tone—
“Can’t the organ monkey talk neither! I thought it was only parrots!”
“Do?” replied the Psammead. “I don’t care what you do!” And it drew head and ears into the tweed covering of Robert’s coat.
The others looked at each other.
“It’s only a dream,” said the learned gentleman hopefully; “something is sure to happen if we can prevent ourselves from waking up.”
And sure enough, something did.