nothing red about him except his jersey. He's only fainted. What on earth are we to do?"
"Can we move him?" asked Bobby.
"I don't know; he's a big chap."
"Suppose we bathed his forehead with water. No, I know we haven't any, but milk's just as wet. There's a whole bottle."
"Yes," said Peter, "and they rub people's hands, I believe, and say, 'Oh, look up, speak to me! For my sake, speak!'"
"They burn feathers, I know," said Phyllis.
"What's the good of saying that when we haven't any feathers?"
"As it happens," said Phyllis, in a tone of exasperated triumph, "I've got a shuttlecock in my pocket. So there!"
And now Peter rubbed the hands of the red-jerseyed one. Bobbie burned the feathers of the shuttlecock one by one under his nose, Phyllis splashed warmish milk on his forehead, and all three kept on saying as fast and as earnestly as they could:—
"Oh, look up, speak to me! For my sake, speak!"
