She wriggled a few inches farther.
"Ouch! I'm afraid I'll tear——"
"Let it tear."
He seized her hand and dragged her completely through, mindless of her protest that she was being flayed.
"Don't talk so loudly," he warned. "You're in the orchard now. It's only a little way to the raiment. Remember: this is no deserted house. The folks are home. I'm banking on the fact that they're at dinner, and that the servants are busy. Come on."
He now began to advance by a series of short rushes, each rush taking him from the shelter of one tree to the next. Mary followed, establishing herself behind a tree as soon as he had vacated it. It seemed to her that the trees were intolerably meager in girth; she felt as if she were trying to hide behind a series of widely placed lead pencils. But the dusk was continuing to thicken, which was welcome consolation.
They were within easy view of the house now. It was something more than a house; it was a mansion, filled with innumerable windows, it seemed to Mary, and out of each window a pair of accusing eyes probably staring. Where the orchard left off there was an open space, and beyond that a yard full of fluttering garments, suspended from a clothes line. Between the yard and the house was another hedge, and Pete was counting upon that hedge as a screen.
They paused at the edge of the orchard.
"For the next few minutes we are in the hands of Providence," he whispered. "Want to come with me, or will you trust me to pick out a costume?"
"I—I'll trust you," said Mary.