THE BRUSHWOOD BOY
her. There seemed to be no need of any further introduction.
"I 've got a cut on my thumb," said he. It was the first work of his first real knife, a savage triangular hack, and he esteemed it a most valuable possession.
"I 'm tho thorry!" she lisped. "Let me look—pleathe."
"There 's a di-ack-lum plaster on, but it 's all raw under," Georgie answered, complying.
"Dothent it hurt?"—her grey eyes were full of pity and interest.
"Awf'ly. Perhaps it will give me lockjaw."
"It lookth very horrid. I 'm tho thorry!" She put a forefinger to his hand, and held her head side wise for a better view. Here the nurse turned, and shook him severely.
"You mustn't talk to strange little girls, Master Georgie."
"She is n't strange. She 's very nice. I like her, an' I 've showed her my new cut."
"The idea! You change places with me."
She moved him over, and shut out the little girl from his view, while the grown-up behind renewed the futile explanations.
"I am not afraid, truly," said the boy, wriggling in despair; "but why don't you go to sleep in the afternoons, same as Provost of Oriel?"
Georgie had been introduced to a grown-up of that name, who slept in his presence without apology. Georgie understood that he was the most important grown-up in Oxford; hence he strove to gild his rebuke
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