“Yes,” said Mark from the top bar.
“How are they all at home?” i.e. at Mark’s.
“Quito well,” said Mark.
“All?” said Jack again.
“Frances bruised her arm—”
“Much?” anxiously.
“You can’t see it—her skin’s like a plum,” said Mark; “if you just pinch it it shows.”
“Hum!” and Jack was gone.
Late in the evening they tried hard to catch the donkey, that Mark might ride home. It was not far, but now the day was over he was very tired, so too was Bevis. Tired as they were, they chased the donkey up and down—six times as far as it was to Mark’s house—but in vain, the moke knew them of old, and was not to be charmed or cowed. He showed them his heels, and they failed. So Mark stopped and slept with Bevis, as he had done so many times before. As they lay awake in the bedroom, looking out of the window opposite at a star, half awake and half asleep, suddenly Bevis started up on his arm.
“Let’s have a war,” he said.