“You want a good rub-down and a hot drink,” counselled Barry. “I hope your mother won’t be scared.”
“She won’t, ’cause she’ll see I’m alive,” said Robin, with something of her usual twinkle. It was a washy twinkle, but Barry was relieved to see that it was there. “But we’re a lovely pair, to be coming home!”
“Better wet than dead!” grinned her dripping companion. “And anyhow, we’ve brought home our breakfast!”
“Yes, and you saved my tackle. That was awfully decent of you. You saved my life, too, but you might have felt you had to do that—but there was no need for you to go back after that spinner. I—I’m just awfully obliged to you.” The speech was an effort, and she hurried on, squelching in her wet boots.
Barry might reasonably have felt bewildered at this peculiar distribution of gratitude, but he saw nothing to criticize. He was oppressed by the necessity of making a speech himself.
“I was no end of a swine this morning,” he said, flushing. “What I said about Danny, I mean. It was a low-down thing to say—I’m sorry, Robin.”
She flashed a smile at him.
“That’s all right,” she said, with embarrassment. “I was rather a pig, too. I won’t be again, if you won’t.”
“Rather not!” said Barry. They squelched companionably towards the house.