"What's your name?" said Bobbie.
"Jim."
"Mine's Bobbie."
"But you're a girl, aren't you?"
"Yes, my long name's Roberta."
"I say—Bobbie."
"Yes?"
"Wasn't there some more of you just now?"
"Yes, Peter and Phil—that's my brother and sister. They've gone to get some one to carry you out."
"What rum names. All boys'."
"Yes—I wish I was a boy, don't you?"
"I think you're all right as you are."
"I didn't mean that—I meant don't you wish you were a boy, but of course you are without wishing."
"You're just as brave as a boy. Why didn't you go with the others?"
"Somebody had to stay with you," said Bobbie.
"Tell you what, Bobbie," said Jim, "you're a brick. Shake." He reached out a red-jerseyed arm and Bobbie squeezed his hand.
"I won't shake it," she explained, "because it would shake you, and that would shake your poor leg, and that would hurt. Have you got a hanky?"
