After four miles the boatswain, who was no walker,
reminded her that they had got to go back.
"Plenty of time," said Chrissie, "we have got the day before us. Isn't
it glorious? Do you see that milestone, Tucker? I'll race you to it;
come along."
She was off on the instant, with the boatswain, who suspected treachery,
after her.
"You CAN run," she panted, thoughtfully, as she came in second; "we'll
have another one presently. You don't know how good it is for you,
Tucker."
The boatswain grinned sourly and looked at her from the corner of his
eye. The next three miles passed like a horrible nightmare; his charge
making a race for every milestone, in which the labouring boatswain,
despite his want of practice, came in the winner. The fourth ended
disastrously, Chrissie limping the last ten yards, and seating herself
with a very woebegone face on the stone itself.
"You did very well, miss," said the boatswain, who thought he could
afford to be generous. "You needn't be offended about it."
"It's my ankle," said Chrissie with a little whimper. "Oh! I twisted it
right round."
The boatswain stood regarding her in silent consternation
"It's no use looking like that," said Chrissie sharply, "you great
clumsy thing. If you hadn't have run so hard it wouldn't have happened.
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