“That’s great,” said Clif as they went back; “they can’t get into a bit of harm, ’cause they can’t go past the length of the rope anywhere. And they can’t hurt their blessed clothes; and they can’t get drowned [147] ]’cause the water’s not up to their knees; and they can’t catch cold, it’s so hot. Come on, the train must be nearly in.”
“Tell you,” said Ted, “let’s hide in their garden and watch them; they’d only stop at the station a minute or two, and they’d see us if we followed.” Their mother had impressed it upon them very clearly the last time the tenants moved into this house, that people hated little boys to stand about and stare when they were moving, and that nice gentlemanly boys would not think of even peeping through the cracks of the fence.
Clif found his brother’s suggestion good.
“Near the side-room window there’s a tank, we could squeeze down in the place where it doesn’t touch the wall and see everything,” he said.
“Come on,” said Ted, “I can hear the train.” And they swarmed over the fence with no further ado.
For nearly an hour they crouched patiently in their uncomfortable position before there was anything to see. Ted was just suggesting this could not be the day, but at last there came rumbling along the old patched-up cart of the blacksmith, the only one obtainable at short notice. An idler, not more than half sober, walked beside it—the only man obtainable at short notice. No one in the place had known the new teacher was coming so soon, or there would have been quite an army to offer help, for the people were kindly. But it happened that the Sunday-school picnic was [148] ]taking place a mile or two away, and the village was deserted. Behind the cart walked a little lady in black, with two little light-haired girls beside her, and a little dark-haired one running in front.
They turned in at the gate. The boys wondered what made the lady look as if she were going to cry as she gazed at the forlorn empty cottage. The scrubbing woman had gone—indeed, so anxious to get to the picnic had she been, she had not finished the work, meaning to come back to it at night; the windows, though thrown up, had still a year’s dirt upon them; there was a bucket of dirty water in the narrow hall; in the kitchen there was a heap of old fish- and jam-tins and other rubbish.
The man was unloading the cart under protest; the boys watched him bump in some packing-cases and flat cabin-boxes, a few chairs, two mattresses, and a bundle of bed-laths. The little girls kept running to and fro with the lighter bags and articles.
“Where is the rest of the beds?” said the lady, looking in dismay at the now almost empty cart.
“Must ha’ left it at the station,” said the man laconically. He tipped the cart at an angle and slid the piano-case off on to the footpath.