“Poor old Macey!” he said, as he leaped over or parted the great thorny strands of the brambles laden with their luscious fruit which grew here in abundance, and then he stopped short and laughed, for a yell came from his fellow-pupil, who had also stopped.
“Come on,” cried Vane.
“Can’t! I’m caught by ten million thorns. Oh, I say, do come and help a fellow out.”
Vane backed a little way, and selecting an easier path, soon reached the spot where Macey was standing with his head and shoulders only visible.
“Why didn’t you pick your way?” he cried.
“Couldn’t,” said Macey dolefully; “the thorns wouldn’t let me. I say, do come.”
“All right,” said Vane, confidently, but the task was none too easy, for Macey had floundered into the densest patch of thorny growth anywhere near, and the slightest movement meant a sharp prick from blackberry, rose, or furze.
“Whatever made you try to cross this bit?” said Vane, who had taken out his knife to divide some of the strands.
“I was trying to find the lane. Haven’t seen one about anywhere, have you?”
“Why, of course I have,” said Vane, laughing at his friend’s doleful plight. “It’s close by.”