"Here, I say, Josh, such a game!"
"What is it?"
The first speaker pointed down the gorge, tried to utter words, but
began to choke with laughter, pointed again, and then stood stamping his
feet, and wiping his eyes.
"Well," cried the other, addressed as Josh, "what is it? Don't stand
pointing there like an old finger-post! I can't see anything."
"It's--it's--it's--he--he--he!--Oh my!--Oh dear!"
"Gahn! What an old silly you are! What's the game? Let's have a bit
of the fun."
"The sun--sun--sun--"
"Don't stand stuttering there in that stupid way."
"I couldn't help it--there, I'm better now. I was coming along the top
walk, and there he was right down below, sitting under his old white
mushroom."
"Well, I can't see anything to laugh at in that. He always is sitting
under his old white umbrella, painting, when he isn't throwing flies."
"But he isn't painting. He's fast asleep; and I could almost hear him
snore."
"Well, if you could hear him snore, you needn't make a hyena of
yourself. I don't see anything to laugh at in that."
"No; you never see any fun in anything. Don't you see the sun's gone
right round, and he's quite in the shade?"
"Well, suppose he is; where's the fun?"