“Better put the coat on, unless you want to come out on the other side in full evening dress,” he said. “There’s no use kicking; but I wish you’d happened to have on some sort of a jacket when we got spilled.”
“Is there no path through the thicket?” inquired Winthrope.
“Only the hippo trail, and it don’t go our way. We’ve got to run our own line. Here’s a stick for your game ankle.”
Winthrope took the half-green branch which Blake broke from the nearest tree, and turned to assist Miss Leslie with the coat. The garment was of such coarse cloth that as Winthrope drew the collar close about her throat Miss Leslie could not forego a little grimace of repugnance. The crease between Blake’s eyes deepened, and the girl hastened to utter an explanatory exclamation: “Not so tight, Mr. Winthrope, please! It scratches my neck.”
“You’d find those thorns a whole lot worse,” muttered Blake.
“To be sure; and Miss Leslie fully appreciates your kindness,” interposed Winthrope.
“I do indeed, Mr. Blake! I’m sure I never could go through here without your coat.”
“That’s all right. Got the handkerchief?”
“I put it in one of the pockets.”
“It’ll do to tie up your hair.”