“Eva,” cried Ned Medlicott, the curate’s twelve-year-old, running up to his sister, a pretty girl of eighteen, to exhibit some kestrel’s eggs. “Look at these. Did you ever see such stunners!”
“‘Stunners,’ indeed,” was the laughing reply. “Why, how did you get them, Ned?”
“I didn’t take them,” explained the boy; “Mr Dorrien climbed the tree—but—”
“But the great thing is, here they are, eh, Ned?” cried Roland. “And it’s my private opinion you’ll break them before you get home.”
He was thinking how thoroughly happy the boy looked, and how easily he had been made so, and the thought seemed to please him.
“Hullo, Eustace! Late as usual,” he went on, as some new arrivals hove in sight, toiling up the steep escarpment. “Thought you had wrecked your party.”
For Eustace had brought round the rest of the party by sea, in a sailing craft, chartered at Minchkil.
“Oh, did you? Now look here. Do you know what Thought did? No? Well, I’ll tell you—Thought we had had a precious dry walk up from the boat, and lost no time in beheading one of those jolly long-necked bottles over there. Aren’t I right, Mr Medlicott?” turning to his companion.
“Oh, of course, you always are,” answered the latter with a laugh. He was the senior curate of Wandsborough, a middle-aged, scholarly man—owning a vast family, two representatives of which were with the party, as we have seen.
“Worse and worse!” said Roland, with a shake of the head, and mischievously barring the way. “Eustace, I wash my hands of you—‘fizz’ before tiffin isn’t good for little boys like you.”