"All right; don't then," answered Winnie.
Murtagh muttered—"Little brute," adding after a pause, "Which of us two is the best for talking?"
"I will, if you like," said Winnie. "After all, I don't care. He's an old nuisance, and it's no use bothering our heads what to say to him. Let's say whatever comes to our tongues."
"It would be a queer saying I'd say if I did that," returned Murtagh. "However, let's go."
But Bobbo never could make up his mind to feel quite comfortable while a quarrel was going on.
"I'll just see again if Rosie won't come," he said. "We had much better keep together."
Though Rosie pretended not to care what Winnie and Murtagh thought of her, she really cared a great deal, and was crying, wishing she had never said anything about taking Theresa home. However, when Bobbo put his head in at the door and began—"I say, Rosie—" she hastily dried her eyes, and her answer "Well?" was as grumpy as ever. She didn't want to make them dislike her more, but she could not help feeling sulky the minute any one spoke to her. Bobbo came into the room, and continued:
"I say, Ro, I wish you'd come, too; you blarney old Plunkett much better than any of us."
"I don't want to go where I'm not wanted," returned Rosie. "Murtagh and Winnie don't like me helping, so I'd rather stay here."
To all Bobbo's persuasions she continued to give the same answer, till at last he took hold of the handle of the door, saying: "Don't be a donkey, Ro; Murtagh and Winnie are different, you know. They don't understand about people being afraid. They think it's so awfully sneaky to be afraid. You'd much better come."