“Where was I?”
“In the foreground with eight pink pajamas in the middle distance.”
“Oh, yes. So there I was, travel-worn, thirsty, weary, uncertain——”
“Cut it,” observed Wayne.
“And a stranger,” continued Briggs with dignity, “in a strange country——”
“Peculiarity of strangers.”
Briggs took no notice. “I drank from the cool springs; I lingered to pluck a delicious berry or two, I bathed my hot face, I——”
“Where,” demanded Wayne, “were the eight pink ’uns?”
“Still in the middle distance. Don’t interrupt me, George; I’m slowly drawing closer to them.”
“Well, get a move on,” retorted Wayne sulkily.