And--Where did you get that there yellow fowl ?' She pointed to the Phoenix.
Even Anthea saw that unless the cook lost her situation the loss would be theirs.
'I wish,' she said suddenly, 'we were on a sunny southern shore, where there can't be any whooping-cough.' She said it through the frightened howls of the Lamb, and the sturdy scoldings of the cook, and instantly the giddy-go-round-and-falling-lift feeling swept over the whole party, and the cook sat down flat on the carpet, holding the screaming Lamb tight to her stout print-covered self, and calling on St Bridget to help her.

She was an Irishwoman.
The moment the tipsy-topsy-turvy feeling stopped, the cook opened her eyes, gave one sounding screech and shut them again, and Anthea took the opportunity to get the desperately howling Lamb into her own arms.
'It's all right,' she said; 'own Panther's got you.

Look at the trees, and the sand, and the shells, and the great big tortoises.

Oh DEAR, how hot it is!' It certainly was; for the trusty carpet had laid itself out on a southern shore that was sunny and no mistake, as Robert remarked.

The greenest of green slopes led up to glorious groves where palm-trees and all the tropical flowers and fruits that you read of in Westward Ho! and Fair Play were growing in rich profusion.