“Of course,” said Will; “this afternoon, when we’ve seen them open the sluice.”
“Good,” said the artist. “I will be there; but look here, let’s carry the canvases down; there are only twelve. Nothing like the present. I’ll bring them now.”
“You mean, we’ll take them now,” said Will, correctively.
The matter was arranged by their taking four each.
“Going to take them below to the mill to pack, Mrs Drinkwater,” said Manners, as they went down the path.
“Dear, dear, sir,” said the woman, sadly; “it seems so early, and it’ll be very dull when you’re gone.”
“Next spring will soon come, Mrs Drinkwater,” said Manners, cheerily; and the trio strolled on together, to come, at the angle of the second zig-zag, plump upon Drinkwater, with one arm round a birch trunk, his right hand to his shaggy brow, leaning away from the path as far as he could, as if gazing down at the dam.
“Morning, Drinkwater,” cried Manners, cheerily.
The man started violently, stared at the canvases, then at their bearer, and hurried away in amongst the trees.
“Nice cheerful party that to live with, lads,” said the artist, laughingly. “Only fancy being his wife!”