"By the way you grumble, they're leading you fast enough," Corliss answered angrily.
"Forty mile an hour," Tommy retorted, as he walked away, gloating over having the last word.
"One moment. You've two shirts. Lend me one."
The Scotsman's face lighted inquisitively, till he comprehended. Then he shook his head and started on again.
Frona scrambled to her feet. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Sit down."
"But what is the matter?"
Corliss put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back. "Your feet. You can't go on in such shape. They're in ribbons. See!" He brushed the sole of one of them and held up a blood-dripping palm. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Oh, they didn't bother—much."
"Give me one of your skirts," he demanded.