“He doesn’t look flourishing.” Sir Harry mimicked the Squire’s recent manner.
Taffy turned with the look of a hunted animal. He did not want to fight. He hated this house and its inhabitants. The other boy was stripping off his jacket with a good-humoured smile.
“I—I don’t want—” Taffy began fumbling with a button. “Please—”
“Off with your coat, boy! You were game enough t’other day. If you lick en, I’ll put a new roof on your father’s church.”
Taffy was still fumbling with his jacket-button when a bell sounded, clanging through the house.
“The parson!”
Squire Moyle clutched at his Bible like a child who has been caught playing in school. Sir Harry stepped to the window and flung up the sash. “Out you tumble, youngsters—you too, Miss, if you like. Pick up your coat, George—cut and run to the stables; I’ll be round in a minute—quick, out you go!”
The children scrambled over the sill and dropped on to the stone terrace. As his father closed the sash behind him, George Vyell laughed out. Then Taffy began to laugh; he laughed all the way as they ran. When they reached the stables he was swaying with laughter. There was a hepping-stock by the stable-wall, and he flung himself on to the slate steps. He could not stop laughing. The two others stared at him. They thought he had gone mad.
“Here comes Dad!” cried George Vyell.
This sobered Taffy. He sat up and brushed his eyes. Sir Harry whistled for Jim, and told him to saddle the horses.