The next minute he made a rush towards the path leading upward towards his cottage, passing Mr Manners, who was hurrying down, and disappeared amongst the trees.
“Why, hollo!” shouted the artist. “What’s the matter with my landlord? I was going to strip for a swim. Has he turned mad? I thought he was going to jump in.”
“I’m afraid that he ought to see a doctor,” said the Vicar, gravely. “He is evidently suffering from a terrible fit of excitement,” and as they joined Mr Willows and the murmuring group of work-people below, he continued; “You see a great deal of him, Mr Manners. Have you noticed anything strange in his ways?”
“Strange?” said the artist, bluffly. “Well, yes, he’s always strange—a silent, morose sort of fellow. But I don’t dislike him; he’s a very straightforward, good man, who rather looks down on me. We hardly ever speak, but I have noticed that his wife has seemed a little more troubled than usual lately. I left her crying only just now, and asked what was the matter; but all I could get was that her husband was not well. What’s been going on here? I heard him shouting as soon as I came outside.”
“Ah! That sounds bad,” continued the artist, as soon as the Vicar had related the incident that had passed. “Poor fellow! He doesn’t drink, I know: sober as a judge. Temper—that’s what it is.”
“I don’t like to hear those threats,” said the Vicar.
“Pooh! Wind! Fluff! People say all sorts of things when they are in a passion, and threaten high jinks. I do sometimes, don’t I, boys? Take no notice, Mr Willows. We are not going to have the peace of our happy valley spoiled because somebody gets in a fantigue. Well, boys, how does the fire-engine go?”
“Haven’t tried it yet,” said Will.
“H’m! Can’t we have a bit of a blaze? I should like to come and help to put it out.”
“I think we ought to have got it out to play on poor old Boil O, for he’s been quite red-hot.”