“Couldn’t be partly a gun and partly a telescope?� pleaded Pierce, reluctant to abandon his first fancy. “I’ve often seen the phrase ‘shooting stars,’ but perhaps I’ve got the grammar and sense of it wrong. The young man lodging with the farmer may be following one of the local sports—the local substitute for duck-shooting!�
“What in the world are you talking about?� growled the other.
“Their lodger may be shooting the stars,� explained Pierce.
“Hope their lodger isn’t shooting the moon,� said the flippant Crane.
As they spoke there came towards them through the green and twinkling twilight of the orchard a young woman with copper-coloured hair and a square and rather striking face, whom Pierce saluted respectfully as the daughter of the house. He was very punctilious upon the point that these new peasant farmers must be treated like small squires and not like tenants or serfs.
“I see your friend Mr. Green has got his telescope out,� he said.
“Yes, sir,� said the girl. “They say Mr. Green is a great astronomer.�
“I doubt if you ought to call me ‘sir,’� said Pierce reflectively. “It suggests rather the forgotten feudalism than the new equality. Perhaps you might oblige me by saying ‘Yes, citizen,’ then we could continue our talk about Citizen Green on an equal footing. By the way, pardon me, let me present Citizen Crane.�
Citizen Crane bowed politely to the young woman without any apparent enthusiasm for his new title; but Pierce went on:
“Rather rum to call ourselves citizens when we’re all so glad to be out of the city. We really want some term suitable to rural equality. The Socialists have spoilt ‘Comrade’; you can’t be a comrade without a Liberty tie and a pointed beard. Morris had a good notion of one man calling another Neighbour. That sounds a little more rustic. I suppose,� he added wistfully to the girl, “I suppose, I could not induce you to call me Gaffer?�