“The sun’s overhead.”
“Sun-stroke.”
“The fire ought to be made in the shadow.”
“There’s no shadow here.”
“Let us go into the wood then.”
“Very well—under the beech.”
They went out, and collected a heap of sticks in the shade of the beech at which they had been shooting. Mark lit the fire; Bevis sat down by the beech and watched the flame rise.
“Pot,” he said.
“Pot—what?” said Mark, still sulky.
“Fetch the water.”