CHAPTER VIII
MAKING FRIENDS
“What are those things?” asked Barry, lounging at the shed doorway, hands in pockets.
“Rabbit-skins,” answered Robin, shortly. She was kneeling by an open box, packing what looked like piles of envelopes of parchment.
“Don’t look much like rabbits.”
“I don’t suppose our skins would look much like us if they were pulled off inside out,” Robin responded, grimly practical. “Ten—eleven—twelve!” She tied a string round the bundle she held, made a note on a piece of paper, and proceeded to count a fresh dozen.
“Where’d you get them?”
“Shot them.” Robin looked ruefully at a much-punctured skin which had apparently been shot at too close quarters, hesitated a moment, and then, with reluctance, decided to reject it. Barry sniggered.
“Gave him the whole cartridge, didn’t you? Did he sit still while you walked up and potted him?”
“Yes—ours always do. Haven’t you noticed? I thought that was how you managed to shoot the two you got.”
Barry flushed. He was grimly aware of the number of cartridges he had expended. Apparently this provoking farm-girl knew something about it, too. He decided to pursue the matter no further.