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“A nail ran into my knicks, sir, when I was on the roof mending the shingles.” “I got hung up in the agaves, father, and the thorns catch like hooks.” The two frank, good-looking lads coloured through their bronzed skins, and each involuntarily clapped his hand to a guilty spot-that is to say, one covered a triangular hole in his knickerbockers and the other pressed together the sides of a long slit in his Norfolk jacket, and they spoke together again. “And when they do come the wet will find it easy to get to your skin, Chris-and to yours too, Ned Bourne.
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But though we can drink in the beauty of the place it does not quench one’s thirst, and not being herbivorous people, we can’t feed on flowers.
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I don’t wonder that the old mission fathers called it the Valley of the Angels. “It is, as I have often said, a perfect paradise-a beautiful garden. “Yes, Ned, lovely and glorious,” said the penman sadly. It’s such a lovely morning out, and the flowers are glorious.” “There’ll be a heavy rain, the river will fill again, and the fish begin running up from the sea. “Oh, it will be better soon, sir,” said the second boy cheerfully. “No, fa it was all turned into pools when we were there a fortnight ago, and now there’s only a muddy spot here and there all the rest have dried-up.” “To the upper pool, sir,” said the second boy, “and there wasn’t a fish.” “A big basketful, boys?” And the speaker rubbed his hands. The boys exchanged glances again, their eyes twinkling with mirth, and then they burst out laughing merrily once more. Well, so we’re to have a treat: fish for dinner, eh? Where are they?” “Gentlemen’s sons, sir,” said the second boy modestly. I’m glad to find that though we are leading this half savage life, you young fellows don’t forget that you are gentlemen.” “I did, my boy,” was the reply, given in company with a weary sigh. You thought you were in an arm-chair, didn’t you?” “No, fa,” said his son, colouring and speaking quickly. “Yes, you may laugh, my fine fellows,” said the first speaker rather pettishly, “but it wouldn’t have been pleasant for me if I had gone down.”
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“Good lads!” cried the first speaker, leaning back on his seat, and starting up and grasping the rough edge of the table to save himself from falling, while the boys burst out laughing. The boys spoke out together then, and muddled or blurred their reply, for one said, “No, fa,” being his shortening of father, and the other cried, “No, sir,” both looking indignant at the suggestion. The boys looked sharply one at the other, their eyes seeming to say, “You tell him!” But neither of them spoke, and the penman said sharply. The speaker, a sturdy-looking, sun-tanned man, seated upon a home-made stool at a rough home-made table in a home-made house of rugged, coarsely-sawn boards, with an open roof covered in with what one of the boys had called wooden slates, had looked up from his writing, and as he spoke carefully wiped his pen-for pens were scarce-and corked the little stone bottle of ink so that it should not evaporate in the super-heated atmosphere, before it was wanted again for the writing of one of the rare letters dispatched to England, these being few, the writer preferring to wait till the much-talked-of better days came-the days for which they had been patiently waiting five years.