"You're not sorry you saved her life."
"Will you be quiet?" cried Harry angrily. "Saved her life again. Everybody's telling me of it. Of course I don't mean I'm sorry, but I wish somebody else had done it. Ah! you, for instance," cried the boy, with one of his old mirthful looks. "Ha, ha, ha! Poor old Phra! How would he like it? every one calling him a brave young hero!"
"I shouldn't mind it once or twice," said Phra thoughtfully. "But after that I suppose it would be rather tiresome."
"Tiresome!" cried Harry. "It sets your teeth on edge—it makes you squirm—it makes you want to throw things that will break—it makes you want to call names, and kick."
Phra roared.
"Ah, you may grin, my lad, but it does."
"It would make me feel proud," said Phra.
"That it wouldn't. You're not such a silly, weak noodle. It would make you feel ashamed of yourself, for it's sickly and stupid to make such a fuss about nothing. No, don't say any more about it, or there'll be a fight."
"I say, Hal," cried Phra. "I shall be glad when you are quite well again."
"I am quite well again. Look here, I'll race you along the terrace and back."