Part 24 (2/2)

At length it would come: ”Nothing I can have a ride on, I suppose, Mr.

Hannaford?” Percival would say with careful carelessness.

”Never a norse fit for it,” Mr. Hannaford would reply, equally off-hand.

A heavy sigh from Percival: ”Oh, dear! Sure, I suppose?”

”Certain! Got a little brown 'orse--but there, you'd never ride him.”

”I bet I would! I bet I would!”

Mr. Hannaford, looking terribly fierce and in a very violent voice: ”Bet you wouldn't!”

”Try me, then! Only try me!”

And Mr. Hannaford would bounce up and seize his cane, and they would rush off, and the saddle would be put on the little brown 'orse, and Percival would mount him and gallop him and cry ”You see! You see!”

And Mr. Hannaford would pretend huge amazement and declare that Percival was a proper little Pocket Marvel, bless his eighteen stun proper if he wasn't.

Once or twice Stingo would be there, and then the jolly fun would be jollier than ever; and in the evening Mr. Hannaford's gig with the big black mare would come around and the brothers would labour up into the seat and Percival would squeeze in between them and they would let him drive and he would pop the mare along at a las.h.i.+ng speed and there would be the highest good-fellows.h.i.+p. He would be set down at the top of Five Furlong Hill--nothing would induce Mr. Hannaford to come into the village where women might be met. ”Well, good night, Mr.

Hannaford; good night, Mr. Stingo. Thank you most awfully for all your kindness to me. I hope I'll come again soon.”

The brothers would usually wait until he reached the turning to the village; setting up, the one a husky shout, and the other a terrible bellow, in reply to the faint ”Good night!” that came to them through the dusk.

”I never in all my life took to nothing, not even a little 'orse, like I have to that little master,” Mr. Hannaford would say. ”Never seen such a proper one, never.”

And Stingo, with painful huskiness: ”Ought to ha' been a little lords.h.i.+p!”

”Why, that's just exactly what I say,” Mr. Hannaford would reply, enormously pleased. ”Bless my eighteen stun proper if it isn't!”

IV

Happy, happy time! There were the visits to mild old Mr. Amber in the library at Burdon Old Manor. Strongest contrast, the delights here, to those enjoyed among the little 'orses. Strongest contrast, mild old Mr. Amber with his stooping shoulders and his gentle ways, to tremendous Mr. Hannaford with his l.u.s.ty back and his vigorous habits.

But the same eager welcome: ”Well, well, Master Percival, this is indeed a pleasant surprise! And we are just sitting down to our tea--and I declare Mrs. Ferris has sent us some strawberry jam! Now if that isn't too fortunate I don't know what is!”

”Well, it's awfully jolly,” Percival agrees. ”Mrs. Ferris makes very nice strawberry jam, doesn't she?”

In the act of pouring tea, mild old Mr. Amber sets down the pot and emphasises with his gla.s.ses. ”My dear sir--my dear Percival, she makes the very best strawberry jam! Mrs. Ferris has made that strawberry jam for forty years--to our certain knowledge, for-ty years.”

Percival's rounded eyes show his appreciation of this consistent industry. ”Must have made a lot,” is his comment.

”Tons,” says Mr. Amber. ”My dear sir--my dear Percival, I should say--tons.” He stabs the gla.s.ses at his listener. ”And every berry, sir, every single berry, wet season or dry, from our own gardens!”

It always comes back to that with Mr. Amber. The old Manor, the House of Burdon, is his world and his life, and he is mightily jealous you shall know their quality.

There is generally a little interlude of this kind in the course of the visit. Its effect stays for a few minutes, Mr. Amber slowly repeating to himself ”every berry--every single berry, sir,” in the tone of one impressively warning against any challenge of his statement; and then he simmers down and recollects that his visitor is the Percival who occupies a large portion of his heart. He likes to take Percival's hand. He likes to feel that warm young grasp within his own chilly old palm. He likes to lead the boy and feel those st.u.r.dy young fingers twitch to the excitement of what tales he can tell or what treasures he can show.

”Now what have we got to show you in our shelves this evening? Nothing much, we fear. Oh, yes, we have, though! Those folios--we've rearranged them so as to fill the ninth and tenth in this tier. That was your suggestion, wasn't it? I agree, you know, I quite agree.

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