“It is,” said Robin, with surprising meekness. “Awfully exciting, crossing the streets, don’t you think? I get terribly scared.”
Barry assumed the patronizing air of a complete man of the world.
“I suppose you would,” he said. “All the country people do. Awfully funny to see them at Show time—they always get on the wrong trams, and try to talk to the drivers.”
“Nearly as funny as the Town people out at the Show,” said Robin. “Ever seen them trying to understand a disc-plough? And they talk about a horse’s back-foot.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” queried Barry, unwisely.
“Well—if you don’t know. . . . . .” Robin smiled with extreme sweetness, and packed another dozen.
Barry pondered uneasily for a moment, and decided to seek information on the matter from a more sympathetic source. He sought to change the subject, but no inspiration presented itself except rabbit-skins.
“How d’you get those things into that flat shape?”
“Stretch them on bent wires. There are some hanging up,” said Robin, nodding towards a corner of the shed, where skins hung in a dismal row.
“Must need a lot of wires. Do you buy them ready-made?”