It's no earthly good. No, I'm not crying myself--at least I wasn't
till you said so, and I shouldn't anyway if--if there was any
mortal thing we could do. Oh, oh, oh!'
Cyril and Robert were boys, and boys never cry, of course. Still,
the position was a terrible one, and I do not wonder that they made
faces in their efforts to behave in a really manly way.
And at this awful moment mother's bell rang.
A breathless stillness held the children. Then Anthea dried her
eyes. She looked round her and caught up the poker. She held it
out to Cyril.
'Hit my hand hard,' she said; 'I must show mother some reason for
my eyes being like they are. Harder,' she cried as Cyril gently
tapped her with the iron handle. And Cyril, agitated and
trembling, nerved himself to hit harder, and hit very much harder
than he intended.
Anthea screamed.
'Oh, Panther, I didn't mean to hurt, really,' cried Cyril,
clattering the poker back into the fender.
'It's--all--right,' said Anthea breathlessly, clasping the hurt
hand with the one that wasn't hurt; 'it's--getting--red.'
It was--a round red and blue bump was rising on the back of it.
'Now, Robert,' she said, trying to breathe more evenly, 'you go
out--oh, I don't know where--on to the dustbin--anywhere--and I
shall tell mother you and the Lamb are out.
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