“Of course it does—stuffing your knuckles into it and rubbing like that. There, focus the glass and look out.”
“I can’t see clearly with my right eye, Chris, honour bright. Catch hold.”
“If a fellow tells you a fib once, you don’t believe him next time.”
“What do you want me to say to make you believe me? It does hurt, really.”
“Say there was no fly in the case, to begin with.”
“Will you use the glass if I do?”
“If you can make me believe that you can’t see well.”
“Look, then,” cried Ned, and he dropped his hand, to open his right eye, which was quite bloodshot, “Now, is it likely that I can see steadily with that aching and watering so that I’m half blind?”
“No,” said Chris quietly, and he took the glass and began to focus it on a distant object. “Now, own up; you did rub that hard on purpose?”
Ned was silent.