“Nonsense! You mustn’t mind a drop of water out here. We’re going salmon-fishing. I daresay you’ll get wetter than that. Come on.”
“I’ll put on my shoes and stockings first,” said Max, taking out a pocket-handkerchief to use as a towel.
“Get out! Let the wind dry you. It’s all sand and heather along here. Come on.”
Max sighed to himself, and limped after his guide, who stepped out boldly over the rough ground, hopping from stone to stone, running his feet well into patches of dry sand, which acted like old-fashioned pounce on ink, and from merry malice picking out places where the sand-thistles grew, all of which Max bore patiently for a few minutes, and then, after pricking one of his toes sharply, he stopped short.
“What now?” cried Kenneth, with suppressed mirth.
“Hadn’t we better put on our shoes and stockings here?”
“What for?”
“We might meet somebody.”
“Well, of course. Suppose we did?”
“It—it looks so indelicate,” said Max hesitatingly.