He was away down the creek, running like a monkey, finger-tips touching the ground.
Kit, thankful to tears, watched the sun on the man's ridged back, as he stole away.
Surely, he was through now.
A sound made him look up.
III
The Gentleman had not stirred. He was reading aloud, and loving what he read.
"Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?"
Heaven send Knapp had not heard; but he had.
Up bobbed the black shaven pate out of the creek, much as Kit had often seen the head of a coot bob up in one of the moorland tarns of his own Northumberland.
The little man stood listening, the sun on his shoulders, careless of discovery.