“Crows don’t fly in tin mines,” said Joe, who was in better spirits now.
“Well, then, in a straight line.”
“I don’t believe there’s a straight line in the place.”
“I say, don’t chop logic, Jolly, and don’t— I say, look here, Grip, steady! don’t pull a fellow’s arm off!” interpolated Gwyn, for the dog tugged heavily at the neckerchiefs. “Look here, Joe, old chap, do talk gently to me, for I’m so hungry that I feel quite vicious, and just as if I could bite. Ah, would you get away! Steady, sir! We want to get home as badly as you do—for ‘hoozza! we’re homeward bound—bound; hoozza, we’re homeward bound!’” sang the boy wildly.
“Don’t you holloa till you’re out of the wood.”
“I wasn’t holloaing,” cried Gwyn, with hysterical merriment. “I was singing, only you’ve no ear for music.”
“Not for such music as that. Hark at the echoes!—they sound just like howls.”
“All right, but don’t talk about getting out of the wood when we’re like moles underground.”
“Who’s chopping logic now?”
“Oh, anybody. Steady, Grip, slow march.”