“Worse—those two, I mean. I am like a lamb.”
“Or a bear-cub,” said Ned.
“You wait a bit, old rhyme-snarler.”
“Halloa!” said Carington. “Not now, please. How is everybody? and Miss Anne?”
“We are all first-rate. Rose she is up there above us on the point. She wanted to be alone; she loves that. She told the big Indian to come down here and wait till we go up. You can see her red umbrella. She’s sketching. We are to stop for her at six. More bread?”
“Yes. Bless me, it is five o’clock! I must get away. What was that song? I thought I knew your whole repertory.”
“Oh,” said Ned, “we found that last winter. Tune up, Jack. Dick’s got colic in his bagpipes: he’s no good.”
“I didn’t catch it quite. No, don’t sing it; say it for me.”
“Well, here it is,” said Ned:
“It was a lorde of the North Countree