Part 80 (1/2)

”_I_ is to tumble the poppenoddles,” cries the bullet-headed gentleman. And presently the rustic young gamester is tossing somersets for a penny.

In the middle of the meadow, and encircled by a little crowd of excited male spectators, two men are trying a fall at wrestling.

Stripped to the waist, they are treating each other to somewhat demonstrative embraces.

At a few yards' distance another little circle, of more symmetrical outlines, and comprising both s.e.xes, are standing with linked hands. A shame-faced young maiden is carrying a little cus.h.i.+on around her companions. They are playing the ”cus.h.i.+on game.”

At one corner of the field there is a thicket overgrown with wild roses, white and red. Robbie Anderson, who has just escaped from a rebellious gang of lads who have been climbing on his shoulders and clinging to his legs, is trying to persuade Liza Branthwaite that there is something curious and wonderful lying hidden within this flowery ambush.

”It's terrible nice,” he says, rather indefinitely. ”Come, la.s.s, come and see.”

Liza refuses plump.

The truth is that Liza has a shrewd suspicion that the penalty of acquiescence would be a kiss. Now, she has no particular aversion to that kind of commerce, but since Robbie is so eager, she has resolved, like a true woman, that his appet.i.te shall be whetted by a temporary disappointment.

”Not I,” she says, with arms akimbo and a rippling laugh of knowing mockery. Presently her sprightly little feet are tripping away.

Still encircled by half a score of dogs, Robbie returns to the middle of the meadow, where the wrestlers have given way to some who are preparing for a race up the fell. Robbie throws off his coat and cap, and straps a belt about his waist.

”Why, what's this?” inquires Liza, coming up at the moment, with mischief in her eyes, and bantering her sweetheart with roguish jeers.

”_You_ going to run! Why, you are only a bit of a boy, you know. How can _you_ expect to win?”

”Just you wait and see, little la.s.s,” says Robbie, with undisturbed good humor.

”You'll slidder all the way down the fell, sure enough,” saves Liza.

”All right; just you get a cabbish-skrunt poultice ready for my broken s.h.i.+ns,” says Robbie.

”I would scarce venture if I were you,” continues Liza, to the vast amus.e.m.e.nt of the bystanders. ”Wait till you're a man, Robbie.”

The compet.i.tors--there are six of them--are now stationed; the signal is given, and away they go.

The fell is High Seat, and it is steep and rugged. The first to round the ”man” at the summit and reach the meadow again wins the prize.

Over stones, across streams, tearing through thickets, through belts of trees--look how they go! Now they are lost to the sight of the spectators below; now they are seen, and now they are hidden; now three of the six emerge near the top.

The excitement in the field is at full pitch. Liza is beside herself with anxiety.

”It's Robbie--no, yes--no--egg him on, do; te-lick; te-smack.”

One man has rounded the summit, and two others follow him neck-and-neck. They are coming down, jumping, leaping, flying. They're here, here, and it is--yes, it _is_ Robbie that leads!

”Well done! Splendid! Twelve minutes! Well done! Weel, weel, I oles do say 'at ye hev a lang stroke o' the grund, Robbie,” says Mattha.

”And what do _you_ say?” says Robbie, panting, and pulling on his coat as he turns to Liza, who is trying to look absent and unconcerned.

”Ay! Did you speak to me? I say that perhaps you didn't go round the 'man' at all. You were always a bit of a cheat, you know.”

”Then here goes for cheating you.” Robbie had caught Liza about the waist, and was drawing her to that rose-covered thicket. She found he was holding her tight. He was monstrously strong. What ever _was_ the good of trying to get away?

Two elderly women were amused spectators of Liza's ineffectual struggles.