"Well," she said, "what's the matter?"
"It's this poor little boy," Dora said, pointing to the Dentist, who had gone to sleep in the dry ditch with his mouth open as usual. "His feet hurt him so, and will you give him a lift?"
"But why are you all rigged out like this?" asked the lady, looking at our cockle-shells and sandals and things.
We told her.
"And how has he hurt his feet?" she asked.
And we told her that.
She looked very kind. "Poor little chap," she said. "Where do you want to go?"
We told her that too. We had no concealments from this lady.
"Well," she said, "I have to go on to—what is its name?"
"Canterbury," said H. O.