Of course, Dickie's manners were too good for him to drink first. He drew up the dripping oaken bucket from the cool darkness of the well, fetched the mug, and offered it brimming to the old man. Then he drank, and looked at the garden ablaze with flowers—blush-roses and damask roses, and sweet-williams and candytuft, white lilies and yellow lilies, pansies, larkspur, poppies, bergamot, and sage.
It was just like a play at the Greenwich Theatre, Dickie thought. He had seen a scene just like that, where the old man sat in the sun and the Prodigal returned.
Dickie would not have been surprised to see Beale run up the brick path and throw himself on his knees, exclaiming, "Father, it is I—your erring but repentant son! Can you forgive me? If a lifetime of repentance can atone . . ." and so on.
If Dickie had been Beale he would certainly have made the speech, beginning, "Father, it is I." But as he was only Dickie, he said—
"Your name's Beale, ain't it?"
"It might be," old Beale allowed.
"I seen your son in London. 'E told me about yer garden."
"I should a thought 'e'd a-forgot the garden same as 'e's forgot me," said the old man.
"'E ain't forgot you, not 'e," said Dickie; "'e's come to see you, an 'e's waiting outside now to know if you'd like to see 'im."
"Then 'e oughter know better," said the old man, and shouted in a thin, high voice, "Jim, Jim, come along in this minute!"