“Oh, has he?” said the mill-owner, with a smile. “Thrown out hints, eh? Well, I shall be delighted to see him. But I thought you two chaps were not on very good terms with him.”
“Oh yes, father; it’s all right now. Of course we thought that he was only a painter, but he is really a splendid chap. Come on, Josh; we’ll get him to come up now.”
“Only a painter,” said Mr Willows, with a laugh, as he looked after them.
The two lads started for the cottage where the artist, who was making picture after picture of the neighbourhood, took his meals—when, that is, he did not picnic in the open, which was fairly frequently—and where he slept—and one could sleep in that crisp mountain air.
“No, my dears,” said Mrs Drinkwater, who had come down to the little white gate to speak to them, “Mr Manners is out, I am very sorry.”
“Oh!” said Will.
“Where’s he gone?” asked Josh.
“He went off very early this morning, sir,” said the woman. “He told me to cut him some sandwiches. He said that I would be away all day, as he was going as far as the Tor.”
“And never asked us!” cried Josh. “What a jolly shame!”
“Humph! It is a pity,” said Will, and he turned away. “I say, why shouldn’t we go after him?”