It was the mention of work that roused his mother. She smiled gently, and glanced down the table at her husband. “It would do him good, Billy.”
“Yes, it would do you good,” his father said. “Why don’t you go, old chap?”
“Yes, why don’t you go?” Kay echoed.
His things were quickly packed. In a flannel suit, with his straw hat in his hand, he was saying good-by on the doorstep. His father bethought him. “Here, wait a second, Peter; I’ll walk with you to the end of the Terrace.” While walking he delivered his warning, “This man Arran—personally I like him and I know he’s your friend, but——. I’ve nothing against him, but he’s a queer fellow —clever as the dickens and all that. The fact is, curious tales are told about him—all of them too far-fetched to be true. You know the saying about no smoke without fire, well——. It may be that he’s only different; but he strikes people as being fast and dangerous. Be careful; I’d trust you anywhere. Have a good time. I’ve got it off my chest—my sermon’s ended.”
At the bottom of the Crescent, to his great relief, Peter found that Cat’s Meat’s master was not on the stand. He wouldn’t have hurt Mr. Grace’s feelings for the world. He was free to jump into a spanking hansom. Cat’s Meat may have seen him; but Cat’s Meat couldn’t tell. Surely, at his age, he must have been glad to escape the long crawl to Paddington. The younger horse in the hansom stepped out gaily, making his hoofs ring smartly against the cobblestones. “Cherry, Cherry, Cherry,” they seemed to be saying. Taking short-cuts by side-roads, now following gleaming tram-lines, now dashing through mean streets, past public houses in plenty, they sped till they struck Paddington and drew up in the glass-roofed station. And then the drifting motion of the train and the unbelievable greenness of the country—the glimpses of silver water, quiet meadows and cottages in which people were born and died, and never traveled! And the holiday crowds on the platforms! The girls in summer dresses—the superb cleanness and coolness of them, and the happiness! It was exciting. The wheels beneath his carriage drummed out one word, “Cherry, Cherry, Cherry.” He didn’t know even yet whether he wanted to see her.
The train achieved the surprise of the century—it arrived early. He examined the expectant faces of the people; neither Harry nor the Faun Man was there. He refused to hang about; his legs ached to be moving. Picking up his bag, he set out to walk, hoping he would meet them.
Streets were garish—flowers in gardens, foamy toilets of women, college blazers and rowing colors, and, over all, swift white clouds and the fiercely gleaming sun. From under wide river-hats girls laughed up into men’s tanned faces. Everyone was young or, because the world was golden, seemed to be young. Peter wanted some one to laugh with. Walking down the middle of the street, the crowd moved in pairs, a man and a woman together, almost invariably. The old gray town, like Peter, looked lonely in this hubbub of jostling love and merriment.
As he came in sight of the Catherine Wheel, a distant cheering commenced. Feet moved faster. Men caught at women’s arms, and women caught up their dresses; the army of pleasure-seekers commenced to run. Because Peter was by himself he forged ahead and found a place on the bridge where people stood yelling and jammed, shoulder to shoulder. At first he could make out hardly anything, because of the sea of hats and backs in front of him. Then the crowd swayed; he took advantage of it and found himself leaning over the crumbling stone balustrade, gazing down on one of the most gallant sights in England. Through a steep bank of posies, made up of river gardens, house-boats and human faces, ran a silver thread. Approaching, with what seemed incredible slowness, were two specks about the size of matches. As the sun caught them, one saw the flash of blades, whipping the water with the regularity of clockwork. Stealthily, with infinite labor, one stole ahead. The garden of faces on either side of the silver thread trembled; a roar went up which gathered volume as it drew from out the distance. Peter pressed his lips against a man’s ear—a complete stranger—and shouted, “What is it?”
The man stared at him despisingly, “The Diamond Sculls. Roy Hardcastle again the Australian.” He turned away and paid Peter no more attention.
Peter, though not much wiser, at once became a partisan and screamed the one name he knew, “Hardcastle! Hardcastle! Hardcastle!” till his throat felt as if it had burst.