"But," he demurred, after a moment's thought, "I haven't got wings an' things—or a trumpet."
"Your kind never do have wings and trumpets."
"Oh, I see," he said; and sitting down began to wipe the mud from his legs with his stockings.
"Rather muddy, aren't you?" I hinted. The boy cast a furtive glance at his draggled person.
"'Fraid I'm a teeny bit wet, too," he said hesitatingly. "You see, I've been playing at 'Romans' an' I had to wade, you know, because I was the standard bearer who jumped into the sea waving his sword an' crying, 'Follow me!' You remember him, don't you?—he's in the history book."
"To be sure," I nodded; "a truly heroic character. But if you were the Romans, where were the ancient Britons?"
"Oh, they were the reeds, you know; you ought to have seen me slay them. It was fine; they went down like—like—"
"Corn before a sickle," I suggested.
"Yes, just!" he cried; "the battle raged for hours."
"You must be rather tired."