Part 28 (2/2)

At the same time Toady Lion saluted because he also was a soldier, and Mr. Donnan, who in his untempered youth had pa.s.sed several years in the ranks of Her Majesty's line, mechanically returned the courtesy.

”Why, little shaver,” he said not unkindly, ”this isn't the way to Mr. Burnham's house. There it is over among the trees. But, h.e.l.lo, talk of the--ahem--why, here comes Mr. Burnham himself.”

Toady Lion clapped his hands and ran as fast as he could in the direction of the clergyman. Mr. Burnham was very tall, very soldierly, very stiff, and his well-fitting black coat and corded silk waistcoat were the admiration of the ladies of the neighbourhood. He was never seen out of doors without the glossiest of tall hats, and it was whispered that he had his trousers made tight about the calves on purpose to look like a dean. It was also understood in well-informed circles that he was writing a book on the eastward position--after which there would be no such thing as the Low Church. Nevertheless an upright, good, and, above all, kindly heart beat under the immaculate silk M. B. waistcoat; also strong capable arms were attached to the armholes of the coat which fitted its owner without a wrinkle. Indeed, Mr. Burnham had a blue jacket of a dark shade in which he had once upon a time rowed a famous race. It hung now in a gla.s.s cabinet, and was to the clergyman what Sambo Soulis was to General-Field-Marshal Smith.

But as we know, the fear of man dwelt not in Sir Toady Lion, and certainly not fear of his clergyman. He trotted up to him and said, ”I wants to go to the castle. You come.”

Now hitherto Mr. Burnham had always seen Sir Toady Lion as he came, with s.h.i.+ning face and liberally plastered hair, from under the tender mercies of Janet Sheepshanks--with her parting monition to behave (and perhaps something else) still ringing in his ear.

So that it is no wonder that he did not for the moment recognise in the tear-stained, dust-caked face of the barefooted imp who addressed him so unceremoniously, the features of the son of his most prominent paris.h.i.+oner. He gazed down in mildly bewildered surprise, whereupon Toady Lion took him familiarly by the hand and reiterated his request, with an aplomb which had all the finality of a royal invitation.

”Take me to the castle on the island. I 'ants to go there!”

”And who may you be, little boy?”

”Don't 'oo know? 'Oo knows me when 'oo comes to tea at our house!”

cried Toady Lion reproachfully. ”I'se Mist'r Smiff's little boy; and I 'ants to go to the castle.”

”Why do you want to go to the castle island?” asked Mr. Burnham.

”To find my bruvver Hugh John,” said Toady Lion instantly.

The butcher had come up and stood listening silently, after having, with a certain hereditary respect for the cloth, respectfully saluted Mr. Burnham.

”This little boy wants to go on the island to find his brother,” said the clergyman; ”I suppose I may pa.s.s through your field with him?”

”Certainly! The path is over at the other side of the field. But I don't know but what I'll come along with you. I've lost my son and my message-boy too. It is possible they may be at the castle.

”There is some dust being kicked up among the boys. I can't get my rascals to attend to business at all this last week or two.”

And Mr. Donnan again caused his cane to whistle through the air in a way that turned Toady Lion cold, and made him glad that he was ”Mr.

Smift's little boy,” and neither the son nor yet the errand-boy of the butcher of Edam.

Presently the three came to the wooden bridge, and from it they could see the flag flying over the battlements of the castle, and a swarming press of black figures swaying this way and that across the bright green turf in front.

”Hurrah--yonder they'se fightin'. Come on, Mist'r Burnham, we'll be in time yet!” shouted Toady Lion. ”They saided that I couldn't come; and I've comed!”

Suddenly a far-off burst of cheering came to them down the wind. Black dots swarmed on the perilous battlements of the castle. Other black dots were unceremoniously pitched off the lower ramparts into the ditch below. The red and white flag of jacobin rebellion was pulled under, and a clamorous crowd of disturbed jackdaws rose from the turrets and hung squalling and circling over the ancient and lofty walls.

The conflict had indeed joined in earnest. The embattled foes were in the death grips; and, fearful lest he should arrive too late, Toady Lion hurried forward his reinforcements, crying, ”Come on both of you!

Come on, quick!” Butcher Donnan broke into a run, while Mr. Burnham, forgetting all about his silk waistcoat, clapped his tall hat on the back of his head and started forward at his best speed, Toady Lion hanging manfully on to the long skirts of his coat, as the Highlanders had clung to the cavalry stirrups at Balaclava till they were borne into the very floodtide of battle.

There were now two trump-cards in the lone hand.

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