No! There were no buds or blossoms—nothing of any kind, for that matter—out of Tommy’s reach!
The mill-owner rose to his feet, straightened his square shoulders, made a movement as if to speak, altered his mind, shook Mac’s hand warmly, and with a bow to the tap-room, and a special nod to the barmaid, mounted his horse and rode off. The curate looked up and smiled, his gaze riveted on Mac.
“One of your American gentlemen, sir?” he asked. The tone was most respectful—not a trace of sarcasm, not a line visible about the corners of his mouth; only the gray eyes twinkled.
“No,” answered Mac grimly; “ a gentleman’s gentleman.”
The next morning at sunrise Mac burst into our room roaring with laughter, slapping his pajama-incased knee with his fat hand, the tears streaming from his eyes.
“They’ve gone!” he cried. “Scooted! Saw Logs, Mrs. Saw, the piece of kindling and her maid in the first car, and—”
He was doubled up like a jack-knife.
“And left Tommy behind!” we both cried.
“Behind!” Mac was verging on apoplexy now. “Behind! Not much. He was tucked away in the other car with the valet!”