“Yes,” said Manners, one morning, “the cuckoo’s gone long ago, the swallows are taking flight, and it is getting time for me to pack up my traps and toddle south.”
“Oh, what a pity!” cried Will.
“Humph! Yes, for you. What will you chaps do? No one to play tricks with then.”
“Oh, I say, Mr Manners, play fair!” cried Josh. “Why, I’m sure that we’ve behaved beautifully lately.”
“Very,” cried the artist. “Why, you young dogs, I’ve watched you! You’ve both been sitting on mischief eggs for weeks. It isn’t your fault that they didn’t hatch.”
“Doing what?” cried Josh.
“Well, trying to scheme some new prank. Only you’ve used up all your stuff, and couldn’t think one out.”
The boys exchanged glances, and there was a peculiar twinkle in their eyes, a look that the artist interpreted, and knew that he had judged aright.
“But you’ll be down again in the spring, Mr Manners?” cried Will.
“I hope so, my lad. I’ve grown to look upon Beldale as my second home. I say, you’ll come and help me pack my canvases?”