“You did very well, miss,” said the boatswain, who thought he could afford to be generous. “You needn’t be offended about it.”
“It’s my ankle,” said Chrissie with a little whimper. “Oh! I twisted it right round.”
The boatswain stood regarding her in silent consternation
“It’s no use looking like that,” said Chrissie sharply, “you great clumsy thing. If you hadn’t have run so hard it wouldn’t have happened. It’s all your fault.”
“If you don’t mind leaning on me a bit,” said Tucker, “we might get along.”
Chrissie took his arm petulantly, and they started on their return journey, at the rate of about four hours a mile, with little cries and gasps at every other yard.
“It’s no use,” said Chrissie as she relinquished his arm, and, limping to the side of the road, sat down. The boatswain pricked up his ears hopefully at the sound of approaching wheels.
“What’s the matter with the young lady?” inquired a groom who was driving a little trap, as he pulled up and regarded with interest a grimace of extraordinary intensity on the young lady’s face.
“Broke her ankle, I think,” said the boatswain glibly. “Which way are you going?”
“Well, I’m going to Barborough,” said the groom; “but my guvnor’s rather pertickler.”