CHAPTER XV.
A very few minutes later Dick rode through the gate followed by Jacintha, who raised an arm as she turned to the right, pedalled up the slight hill, and soon disappeared as she began to descend on the other side. Rising to my feet I had waved my arm in return, and I was strolling about the grass beside the road, already impatient to see Dick and Jacintha returning and to learn the full extent of my wealth, when I heard a motor-car panting along the road.
A glance showed that it was driven by the man who had accompanied Jacintha that morning she spied me in the corn-field, and a few moments later he steered the car into his gate. It seemed a long time before I saw the head of Dick and then of his sister appear above the crest of the hill. Dick, in his eagerness to reach me, pedalled all the way down.
'I say, Everard,' he exclaimed as soon as he reached me, 'how much do you think?'
'Did you get the twenty-five shillings?' I asked.
'Two pounds——' began Jacintha, dismounting from her bicycle.
'Let me tell him,' cried Dick. 'Two pounds three and sixpence,' he added with an air of triumph.
'I am most awfully obliged to you,' I said, as he took a purse from his jacket pocket.
'Not so bad,' he continued, 'is it? You see I told old Foster he must give a tip-top price, and of course he knows me. At first, I thought he was not going to buy the thing at all; he said he didn't know whether my uncle would like it, and all that.'
'And he said we ought to have bills printed to say it was found,' added Jacintha.
'But I talked him out of that,' said Dick, 'and here is the money,' he continued, counting out the two sovereigns, a half-crown and a shilling.
'Mind you don't lose any of it,' suggested Jacintha.
'No fear,' I answered.
'I say, where are you going to sleep to-night?' asked Dick.
'Oh, well,' I replied, and I am afraid that my newly acquired wealth made me a little proud, 'I dare say I can find an hotel in Hazleton.'
'Do you think they will take you in?' said Dick.
'I wonder whether we shall see you in London,' cried Jacintha, 'because we are going home next week.'
'And I say, Everard,' said her brother, 'take my word for it, I should not be a scrap surprised if Captain Knowlton was rescued after all.'
'Dick,' suggested Jacintha, 'don't you think we ought to go in to tea?'
'Perhaps we ought,' he admitted. 'Well, good-bye,' he added, and with that he held out his hand. When I shook Jacintha's a moment afterwards, I wished once again that my own hands were cleaner.
'Good-bye,' she cried. 'I am glad the locket was not mine,' and then they both re-mounted their bicycles, rode up the hill, waved their hands once more, and disappeared from my sight.
In spite of the possession of the money for the locket, a sense of depression fell upon me. I had grown quickly friendly with the pair, and they seemed to bring me back to the life which I felt more acutely than before I had lost for ever.
A LESSON IN STEERING.
It was a perfect day for the water, and the Fletcher boys, with a good supply of sandwiches, meat-patties and ginger-beer, had gone off for a day's boating. Their sister Daisy thought it was very hard lines to be left at home, but Mrs. Fletcher would not allow her to go unless a boatman were in charge.
'The boys know what they are about, and I feel fairly happy about them,' she said, 'but I cannot let my little daughter run any risks.'
This was disappointing, though the real grievance lay in the fact that the boys did not seem very anxious to have her. They were very fond of their sister, but, of course, they said there were times when a girl was 'a bit in the way.'
So Daisy wandered down to the pier, feeling rather forlorn, and longing for the time when the boys' boat would come in sight.
Old Steve Tucker was sitting on the end of the pier, smoking his pipe, when Daisy came along.
'Fine day for a sail, Missie,' he said, and indeed the dancing blue waters of the bay looked most inviting.
Then Daisy poured out her troubles, and the old man shook his head in sympathy.
'I wonder now if you would be allowed to come along with me in my little sailing-boat?' he suggested.
'Do you mean it?' Daisy cried. 'Oh, you good old Steve! I will run home and ask Mother this minute.'
'Right you are, Miss Daisy! and I will just go down and put the Mary Jane ship-shape.'
Daisy soon came flying back, having gained the desired permission.
Soon the little boat was dancing over the waves. The breeze filled the sail, and they made such speed that the houses on the shore fast dwindled behind them. Old Steve showed Daisy how to manage the sail and then gave her a lesson in steering. At first the sail slackened and the boat wobbled a little, but his pupil soon grew clever at keeping the head to the wind and steering a straight course.
'Oh, I am enjoying myself!' she cried. 'This is ever so much better than going with the boys, because they always want to manage the sail and the steering, and I never have a chance of learning anything.'
'Well, Missy, you shall come out sailing with me a few times, and I will soon teach you all there is to know about a boat.'
'And then they will not be able to refuse to take me because I am no good, will they?'
'No fear, Missy! You will soon know as much as the young gentlemen—and I do believe that is their boat just ahead.'
'So it is,' cried Daisy, in great excitement. 'Now we will race them, Steve, and give them a surprise.'
'Ship ahoy!' called Daisy as they flew past, and her brothers were indeed astonished to see their sister steering the boat like any old salt. After that they never said that a girl was 'a bit in the way.'
"Daisy soon grew clever at keeping the head to the wind."
"She managed to drag her on shore."
THE GIRL WHO DID NOT RUN AWAY.
A little French girl only seven years old, named Eudoxie, was playing with tiny Philomène in a field, when the young child made two stains on her pink pinafore.
'Mother will scold,' thought the little maid, and trotted off to the river to wash them out.
A plank stretched out from the bank to make it easy for people to draw water, and on this Philomène stepped, but she did not know how rotten it was. Before she could touch the water there was a splash, and the little girl was in the river.
Eudoxie heard her cry out, but did not run away as some children have been known to do when a companion was in danger. She ran at once to the bank, and caught her little friend by the foot, nearly losing her own balance in doing so.
Though Philomène, all wet and breathless, was a heavy weight for Eudoxie, still she managed to drag her on shore, kiss her, and try to console her.
But poor little Philomène was frightened at the idea of facing 'Maman' after her scrape; she must have been rather a scolding mother, as the little girl was afraid to go home in her wet clothes.
So Eudoxie partly undressed in the sunshine, and wrapped her in her own frock, while she ran to beg a change of clothes from the sharp-spoken Madame.
The mother asked why they were wanted.
'Promise not to scold, and I will tell you,' said the child. The promise was given, and Eudoxie told the adventure. 'It was not Philo's fault,' she said.
'Oh, then! my wicked, naughty, precious, darling Philo! take me to her,' said Madame.
Poor Philomène was sitting smiling in the sunshine when the two reached her, Eudoxie with her garments, the mother with tears and kisses all waiting to be showered on her tiny daughter.
Some one told the story in Paris, and many people were pleased with Eudoxie's presence of mind, and the French Humane Society presented the brave girl with a medal for saving the life of her friend.