But the morning, rising cold and bright, though still misty, found me on the rebound once more. The day, after all, is what we make it, and I would not think evil of so smiling a one. Mr. Sant was back, even if we could not see him yet, and his mere neighbourhood was a splint to a weak-knee’d conscience.
Uncle Jenico, though still oppressed with some odd premonition, some formless concern about me, permitted himself to be reassured so far by my high spirits as to let me go presently, with nothing more than an earnest entreaty that I would take care of myself. I had told him nothing about our proposed trip to the Weary Sands. It would have served no purpose but to trouble him all day with anxiety as to our return. I was glad to think, later, that I had not done so; that I had sat content with him for an hour or two after breakfast; had kept him chatting genially, and made him laugh; had taken a genuine bright interest in the “Colossal Wrench,” an invention (which he was engaged in perfecting at the time) somewhat on the principle of the Spanish garrotte, for applying tremendous haulage to an object—the most gratifyingly practical of all his inspirations, as you shall see. And I was glad to think that when at last I had left him, well on in the morning, in a sudden access of emotion he had kissed me, and then driven me away with his stick, and a laugh, and the tears in his eyes. I had been half shamefaced, it is true, at the moment; but presently was to sentimentalize more over the memory than he had over the fact.
We were engaged, Harry and I, by arrangement for this day to the convoying of Mr. Pilbrow about the place, in order to his making acquaintance with its objects of interest. It was nothing, in fact, but an excuse for a ramble; only, to give it a holiday complexion, we had arranged to bring our lunch with us, and our visitor back to high tea at the end of the jaunt.
I set forth about eleven o’clock for the Flask, where we were to meet. The shadows of the previous night were dispelled. A still, shining mist half hid and half revealed, like a bridal veil, the pretty face of nature. There was a smile and a sparkle of gems through it all, and I whistled, as happy as a blackbird, as I went. It was within three mornings of Christmas, a time of peace and good-will, and I was determined to let the day be sufficient for itself in evil without troubling to force its hand.
On the wall of the inn I found a wonderful notice posted. It was written crooked, in great black letters and without any stops, and ran as follows:—
“Nekt Thrusday 26t Desrember there will be on Plaistoo Jingling matches for Hats grinning thro coler Catching of a pig with the Tail greazed climing of a pole of wemen Running For Snuff old Men for tobakker there will be also a place receved for dancing and seats Will be also receved for the Leadies there will be a band including marrow bons and clever to conclude with a grand Exbitrition of Fire wax and Cullerd bumps by J.F.”
Harry joined me while I was spluttering over this, and read the exciting legend across my shoulder.
“I say,” he said, “Mr. Pilbrow’s in luck. He’ll think we’re a game lot. I only hope the reaction won’t be too severe. But what does ‘bumps’ mean? Is Sant getting up a sparring match?”
“Bombs, you gaby,” I said, sniggering.
“Mighty!” said he. “Old Fleming’s going it. But won’t it be fun!”