Luzern,
Switzerland."
With this in his hand, and the big bath towel and red bathing drawers slung over his arm from their drying place on the hot sill, he made off down the baked pathway, whistling pleasantly like a new pied piper—a whole throng of feathered followers at his heels. By the wooden gate, where the red-tiled pump-walk makes junction with the front path at the kitchen end, Miss Bates waylaid him, holding out damp semi-wiped fingers, and saying an expectant "Thank ye."
"What for?" asked the Spawer, trying to dodge on either side of her ample bosom with an active eye for the kitchen door.
"For t' letter," said Miss Bates, unperturbed, "if ye 've written it. Ah 'll gie it to 'er as she gans back."
"Back where from?" inquired the Spawer, with a sudden thirst for information.
"Fro' Far Wrangham," Miss Bates told him, "... wi' letters for Barclay. But she 'll call again on 'er way 'ome, an' ah 'll see she teks it an' all, then."
"Thanks..." the Spawer decided on consideration, "but I think I 'll see her myself. I want to ask about posts...."
"There 's nobbut one," Miss Bates interposed hurriedly, "an' it gans out at 'alf-past four."
"That 's not the one I mean," the Spawer explained, and tacked on very quickly: "Which way does she come back?"