“I thought it was you wot knew all about Red Indian climits an’ the sea not bein’ wet,” he said severely. “Seems to me you don’t know wot you are talkin’ about sometimes. One minute you say the sea’s not wet——”
“I never said the sea wasn’t wet,” said Ginger. “You sim’ly don’t listen to what I do say.—You jus’ keep on talkin’ an’ talkin’ yourself an’ you don’ listen prop’ly to wot other folks say. You get it all wrong. You go on talkin’ and talkin’ about Red Indians an’ divers——”
But Henry and Douglas, the other two Outlaws, were tired of the subject.
“Oh, do shut up!” said Henry irritably.
“Who shut up?” said William aggressively.
“Both of you,” said Douglas.
Ginger and William hurled themselves upon the other two and there followed one of those scrimmages in which the Outlaws delighted. It ended by Ginger sitting on Henry and William on Douglas, and all felt a little warmer and dryer and less irritable. The subjects of Red Indians and divers were by tacit consent dropped.
It was raining harder than ever. The water was pouring in through the roof at the other end of the barn.
“What’ll we do?” said Ginger disconsolately rolling off his human perch.
Their afternoon so far had not been encouraging. They had with characteristic optimism aimed at collecting forty eggs before tea. They had all sustained severe falls from trees, they were wet through, they were scratched and torn and bruised, and the result was one cracked thrush’s egg from a deserted nest, which Ginger subsequently dropped and then inadvertently trod upon while climbing through a hedge. This incident had made Ginger unpopular for a time. It had drawn forth the rough diamonds of William’s sarcasm.