"Take them off, man."
"You won't laugh?"
"NO!" cried Oswald, so impatiently that the others looked back to see why he was shouting. He waved them away, and with humble gentleness began to undo the black tape sandals. Denny let him, crying hard all the time.
When Oswald had got off the first shoe the mystery was made plain to him.
"Well! Of all the—," he said in proper indignation.
Denny quailed—though he said he did not—but then he doesn't know what quailing is, and if Denny did not quail then Oswald does not know what quailing is either.
For when Oswald took the shoe off he naturally chucked it down and gave it a kick, and a lot of little pinky yellow things rolled out. And Oswald looked closer at the interesting sight. And the little things were split pease.
"Perhaps you'll tell me," said the gentle knight, with the politeness of despair, "why on earth you've played the goat like this?"
"Oh, don't be angry," Denny said; and now his shoes were off, he curled and uncurled his toes and stopped crying. "I knew pilgrims put pease in their shoes—and—oh, I wish you wouldn't laugh!"
"I'm not," said Oswald, still with bitter politeness.