“I come up here to read in the evenings sometimes,” he explained in some embarrassment. “It is so quiet and cool, and the sunset light lasts late here on the hill. There is a bit of ceiling left at the corner inside the wall that makes a dry place to keep some books. But I hadn’t meant to be trespassing. I had laid my pocketknife on a stone and Dick’s eye caught it at once.”
He began to gather up the scattered papers which were drifting more and more wildly across the lawn. Betsey ran to give assistance while Miss Miranda assured him that he was not trespassing and was welcome to what hospitality the desolate house afforded. As for Dick he perched on a branch overhead, rocking back and forth apparently with mirth over the mischief he had wrought. He swelled his feathers and gave voice to his one great accomplishment.
“Good morning,” he said in his rasping, squeaking voice, “good morning, good morning!”
It was the only thing he had learned to say, and he never made the effort except at moments when he was completely satisfied with himself and all the world.
They sat, all three, beside the pool for a little until the water was sprinkled thick with dancing lights. David was asking many eager questions in regard to Mr. Reynolds’ machine. Had there been any more accidents? Were the new experiments turning out well? Did Mr. Reynolds feel encouraged? There were many other queries besides, about gas turbines and lubricating systems, too technical for even Miss Miranda to be able to answer. They both walked home with Elizabeth through the warm dark and left her at her door. She had not much to say, for something was puzzling her greatly. In gathering up the scattered papers she had found one among the rest that looked strangely and disagreeably familiar. The light was dim but she could not mistake the drawing, that intricate and much-hated figure, the frustum of a pyramid. She could not conceive why David Warren should be troubling his head with such matters. Indeed, there seemed to be a good many things that she could not understand at all.
CHAPTER V
AS THE CROW FLIES
Michael was trimming the grape vines, ably assisted by Dick, who sidled along the trellis, keeping up a fluent stream of inarticulate advice and trying, apparently, to get his horny toes or his long black bill cut off by the snapping shears.
“Oh, get along with you,” cried Michael at last, stung to impatience by having cut off the wrong twig in his effort to avoid injuring the inquisitive bird. “Go on about your business and leave me be.”
He gave his black companion a friendly cuff that pushed him off the trellis and launched him into flight. Dick swooped across the garden, where Betsey stood laughing at him and at Michael’s irritation, and flew to the top of the stone wall where he sat scolding with all his might.