"Oh, is it?" said Hal, sitting down to rub his tender shin.
"Yes, splendid. When you kick the ball it flies off so beautifully.
You seem obliged to run after it."
"Yes," said Harry sarcastically, "and then I was obliged to run after you. Why didn't you kick it my way?" he added fiercely.
"I couldn't," replied Phra innocently. "That's the funny part of it, and I suppose the ball's made so on purpose. It never went the way I kicked it, but flew to all sorts of places. But I say, it's glorious fun running after it for the next kick."
"Oh, is it?" sneered Harry; for if the skin was not off his shin, it certainly seemed to be off his temper.
"Yes, come on, and let's begin again."
"Shan't," said Harry sourly; "it's too hot."
"Oh, nonsense; you don't feel it when you're at play."
"Play! I don't call it play," cried Harry angrily. "I call it being a pig and trying to have everything to yourself."
"Oh, I say, don't talk like that, Hal! I didn't know I was doing wrong. There, I apologise. I won't do it again. Come along."