While he talked, and John sat sipping his rum, the wind had risen a little, bringing with it other sounds than the steady dripping of the rain. The wicket-gate for the use of travellers on foot creaked and banged gently once or twice, and when this happened Ben’s face seemed to sharpen, and he broke off what he was saying to listen intently. John noticed that his eyes wandered continually towards the backdoor, and that the noises coming from the rear of the house seemed to worry him more than the creak of the gate. A gust of wind blew something over with a clatter. It sounded to John as though a broom, or a rake, had fallen, but it brought Ben to his feet in a flash, and drove him instinctively to John’s side.
“What is it?” John said quietly.
“Him!” breathed Ben, his gaze riveted to the door.
John got up, and trod over to the door, ignoring a whimper of protest. He shot back the bolts, and opened it, stepping out into the garden. “There’s no one here,” he said, over his shoulder. “You left a broom propped against the wall, and the wind blew it over, that’s all. Come and see for yourself!” He waited for a moment, and then repeated, on a note of authority: “Come!”
Ben approached reluctantly.
“Weather’s fairing up,” remarked John, leaning his shoulders against the door-frame, and looking up at the sky. “Getting lighter. We shall have a fine day tomorrow. Well? Can you see anyone?”
“N-no,” Ben acknowledged, with a little shiver. He looked up at John, and added hopefully: “He couldn’t get me, could he? Not with a big cove like you here.”
“Of course not. No one could get you,” John replied, shutting the door again, and going back to the fire. “You may bolt it if you choose, but there’s no need.”
“Yes, ’cos he might come to see me dad, and I mustn’t see him, nor him me,” explained Ben.
“Lord, is he as shy as all that? What’s the matter with him? Is he so ugly?”