“Naw!”
“Well, when a chap on the other side has the ball and is running up the field with it and you want to stop him, you make a dive at his knees and clasp your arms right above ’em; and the faster he’s going, the harder he’ll fall.”
“I’d like to learn that game,” remarked Abe with some show of enthusiasm.
“What a nice little stream that is,” continued Clarence, waving his hand towards a tiny streamlet beside their upward path. “I like the sound of running water, don’t you? There ought to be a waterfall somewhere about here.”
“There is; it’s furder up.”
“Are you fond of Tennyson, Abe?”
“Eh? What’s that? Another game?”
“He’s a poet.”
“A what?”
“A poet: he writes verses, you know.”