that terrible scream, the young man let go of her arm. He knew that another scream like that would have shattered his nerve completely.
Besides, anyone hearing it would think that he was murdering the poor child. Suppose – the perspiration stood out on his brow at the thought – suppose she came along and heard
the child scream like that and saw him holding her arm. She’d think – Heavens! she’d think he was hurting her.
Then he saw that as he was standing motionless in the grip of that nightmare thought, the child, still firmly clasping his precious pocket-book, was wriggling her small form through a very
inadequate gap in the hedge and was now practically in the field beyond it.
One glance at the gap told the young man that it would not admit his more solid person, so he doubled quickly round to the stile. The small child was running up the field towards an old
tumble-down barn at the further end. The young man followed, not daring again to lay hands on her, but keeping his pocket-book anxiously in view.
‘Come an’ thee what I’ve done ,’ shrilled the young person.
He followed her into the old barn. Four boys in various stages of dishevelment were engaged in a rough-and-tumble fight on the muddy floor. One of the boys wore a badly fitting and rather mangy
wig hanging over one ear. The young man recognised him with a leap of his heart as her brother. Pieces of paper, evidently laboriously written upon, were trodden into the mud around the
battlefield. The four boys sat up and gaped at the two intruders. The small child waved aloft the pocket-book triumphantly.
‘I’ve thtolen it,’ she said, ‘I’m a crim’nal.’
Proudly she laid it in the hands of the boy with the ill-fitting wig.
‘Tell him I thtole it,’ she said to the young man.
The young man rubbed his eyes.
‘Am I mad?’ he said, ‘or am I dreaming?’
The small child had taken affairs into her own hands.
‘You’ve got to be the judge,’ she said to William, ‘and you,’ to the young man: ‘Tellem how I thtole your purth an’ put me in prithon an’ put all
about it in the newthpaper an’ my photograph. You muth have my photograph in the newthpaper, cauth they alwayth do with crim’nals.’
Calmly she surveyed them. They gaped at her.
She laid down the pocket-book on the largest packing-case and opened it. The photograph of Ethel fell out.
Suddenly someone appeared in the doorway.
To the young man it was as if a radiant goddess had stepped down from Olympus. The barn was full of heavenly light. He went purple to the roots of his ears.
To William it was as if a sister whom he considered to be elderly and disagreeable and entirely devoid of all personal charm had appeared. He groaned.
‘Oh, William, you are an awful boy,’ said Ethel, ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Mother says have you been out in all this rain and if you have, go straight in and change.’
‘Well, I haven’t,’ said William. ‘I’ve been shelt’rin’ here.’
‘You do look awful ,’ said Ethel, gazing at him despairingly.
Then her glance fell upon the open pocket-book, upon the packing-case and upon her photographs.
‘Who – who took these?’ she said in quite a different tone.
‘I – I did,’ stammered the young man, who was now a dull petunia shade.
‘But – why?’ said Ethel in a very sweet voice.
Really, she did not need to ask why. The soulful look of the young man’s eye and the petunia shade of the young man’s face told her why.
‘I say, it’s stopped raining,’ said Ginger joyously from the doorway. ‘Let’s go out.’
‘Why?’ said Ethel demurely, with curling lashes lowered over peachlike cheek, ‘why did you only take me side and back view? I look nicer from the front.’
The young man gulped. Emotion gave him the appearance of one about to have an apoplectic fit.
‘M-m-m-may I take you from the front?’ he said.
Ethel took up the snapshots again.
‘I think you’d better,’
Besides, anyone hearing it would think that he was murdering the poor child. Suppose – the perspiration stood out on his brow at the thought – suppose she came along and heard
the child scream like that and saw him holding her arm. She’d think – Heavens! she’d think he was hurting her.
Then he saw that as he was standing motionless in the grip of that nightmare thought, the child, still firmly clasping his precious pocket-book, was wriggling her small form through a very
inadequate gap in the hedge and was now practically in the field beyond it.
One glance at the gap told the young man that it would not admit his more solid person, so he doubled quickly round to the stile. The small child was running up the field towards an old
tumble-down barn at the further end. The young man followed, not daring again to lay hands on her, but keeping his pocket-book anxiously in view.
‘Come an’ thee what I’ve done ,’ shrilled the young person.
He followed her into the old barn. Four boys in various stages of dishevelment were engaged in a rough-and-tumble fight on the muddy floor. One of the boys wore a badly fitting and rather mangy
wig hanging over one ear. The young man recognised him with a leap of his heart as her brother. Pieces of paper, evidently laboriously written upon, were trodden into the mud around the
battlefield. The four boys sat up and gaped at the two intruders. The small child waved aloft the pocket-book triumphantly.
‘I’ve thtolen it,’ she said, ‘I’m a crim’nal.’
Proudly she laid it in the hands of the boy with the ill-fitting wig.
‘Tell him I thtole it,’ she said to the young man.
The young man rubbed his eyes.
‘Am I mad?’ he said, ‘or am I dreaming?’
The small child had taken affairs into her own hands.
‘You’ve got to be the judge,’ she said to William, ‘and you,’ to the young man: ‘Tellem how I thtole your purth an’ put me in prithon an’ put all
about it in the newthpaper an’ my photograph. You muth have my photograph in the newthpaper, cauth they alwayth do with crim’nals.’
Calmly she surveyed them. They gaped at her.
She laid down the pocket-book on the largest packing-case and opened it. The photograph of Ethel fell out.
Suddenly someone appeared in the doorway.
To the young man it was as if a radiant goddess had stepped down from Olympus. The barn was full of heavenly light. He went purple to the roots of his ears.
To William it was as if a sister whom he considered to be elderly and disagreeable and entirely devoid of all personal charm had appeared. He groaned.
‘Oh, William, you are an awful boy,’ said Ethel, ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Mother says have you been out in all this rain and if you have, go straight in and change.’
‘Well, I haven’t,’ said William. ‘I’ve been shelt’rin’ here.’
‘You do look awful ,’ said Ethel, gazing at him despairingly.
Then her glance fell upon the open pocket-book, upon the packing-case and upon her photographs.
‘Who – who took these?’ she said in quite a different tone.
‘I – I did,’ stammered the young man, who was now a dull petunia shade.
‘But – why?’ said Ethel in a very sweet voice.
Really, she did not need to ask why. The soulful look of the young man’s eye and the petunia shade of the young man’s face told her why.
‘I say, it’s stopped raining,’ said Ginger joyously from the doorway. ‘Let’s go out.’
‘Why?’ said Ethel demurely, with curling lashes lowered over peachlike cheek, ‘why did you only take me side and back view? I look nicer from the front.’
The young man gulped. Emotion gave him the appearance of one about to have an apoplectic fit.
‘M-m-m-may I take you from the front?’ he said.
Ethel took up the snapshots again.
‘I think you’d better,’
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