“Father’s orders were that you should use the glass and I was to take the messages.”
“Yes, I know,” cried Ned irritably, “but who’s to use a glass with a fly in his eye?”
“Lie down and turn over. I’ll take it out with a bit of grass,” said Chris gruffly.
“No, no, catch hold of the glass and don’t waste time. I shall be able to rub it out directly.”
“Better let me wipe it out gently with the strand of grass. I shan’t hurt you.”
“Yes, you will. Eye’s such a tender part. I know; I’ll pull the lid up and look at the sun. Then it’ll water horribly, and wash the fly away.”
“No, it won’t,” said Chris.
“What!—How do you know?”
“Because it isn’t a fly.”
“What!” cried Ned, whose cheeks were scarlet, as much as could be seen for one hand held over the closed eye.