'Put a bit of life into it, can't you?' he cried, prodding an ox-faced boy of eleven in the belly. 'Don't drone! Say it as if it meant something! You look like a corpse that's been buried and dug up again. What's the good of gurgling it down in your inside like that? Stand up and shout at him. Take off that second murderer expression!'
'Come here, Percy!' cried Dorothy through her pins. 'Quick!'
She was making the armour, the worst job of the lot, except those wretched jackboots, out of glue and brown paper. From long practice Dorothy could make very nearly anything out of glue and brown paper; she could even make a passably good periwig, with a brown paper skull-cap and dyed tow for the hair. Taking the year through, the amount of time she spent in struggling with glue, brown paper, b
