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y.”
“Puddleglum ！”said Jill. “You’re a regular old humbug. You sound as doleful as a funeral and I believe you’re perfectly happy. And you talk as if you were afraid of everything，when you’re really as brave as—as a lion.”
“Now，speaking of funerals,”began Puddleglum，but Jill， who heard the Centaurs tapping with their hoofs behind her， surprised him very much by flinging her arms round his thin neck and kissing his muddy-looking face，while Eustace wrung his hand. Then they both rushed away to the Centaurs，and the Marsh-wiggle，sinking back on his bed，remarked to himself， “Well，I wouldn’t have dreamt of her doing that. Even though I am a good-looking chap.”
To ride on a Centaur is，no doubt，a great honour（and except Jill and Eustace，there is probably no one alive in the world today who has had it）but it is very uncomfortable. For no one who valued his life would suggest putting a saddle on a Centaur， and riding bare-back is no fun；especially if，like Eustace，you have ne
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