The boy began putting up the bars while Geraldine plodded homeward.
"I couldn't give it to her. She was in the kitchen baking." He thought it wise to add: "She was making silver cookies for you. You'll have them for supper."
There followed more odd phenomena, of which the boy, waiting and keeping alert, only got the explanation later. Quidmore threw himself face downward on the wayside grass. With his forehead resting on his arm, he lay as still as one of those drunken men Tom had occasionally seen like logs beside some country road. Geraldine turned her head to ask why she was not followed, but the boy stood waiting for a further sign. He wondered whether all grown-up men had minutes like this, or whether it was part of the epilepsy he had heard about.
But when Quidmore got up he was calm, the traces of panic having disappeared. To a more experienced person the symptoms would have been of relief; but to the lad of twelve they said nothing.
"I'll go back with you," was Quidmore's only comment, as together they set out to follow Geraldine.
Having reached the barn where the milking was to be done, Quidmore was proceeding to the house. In the hope of a negative, Tom asked if he should try again to-morrow.
Quidmore half turned. "I'll leave that to you."
"I'll do whatever you say," Tom pleaded, desperate at this responsibility.
Quidmore went on his way, calling back, in his creamy drawl, over his shoulder: "I'll leave it entirely to you."