“Get out! Over the river. I’m going fishing.”
“Don’t believe you. You’re going to the races.”
“Sh!” the boy hissed, and looked sharply round.
“There, I knew it!” cried the girl. “I’ll tell her ladyship, and stop that.”
“Just you do. I’m going whipping the stream.”
“Don’t believe it. But she’ll be whipping you for a naughty boy.”
“Shrubbery and old Mark,” said the boy, thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself. “Wonder what sort of a pair the new parlourmaid and groom and valet would be?”
“Oh, you!” cried the girl, with scarlet face and flashing eyes, in which the tears began to rise, making her dart out of the room so that they should not be seen.
“Checkmate, Miss Dustpan!” said Sydney, with a chuckle. “What a sharp one she is, though. My word! I never liked old Trim before. He’s off on some game of his own. Artful old beast! He isn’t such a saint as he pretends. Can’t be going to the races, can he? No, not he; not in his line. Spree in London’s more in his way. A beast, though, to talk like that. Knows too much about such matters. I wish I could find out something, and get him under my thumb, as I have saucy Jenny. How the beggar made me jump!”
He glanced round at the vase he had nearly broken, then at the door, and directly after at the window, to which he ran and looked out, for there was the grating sound of wheels on the drive, but growing fainter and fainter.