“Well,” said Peter, “I’ll do the best I can, Harry. But if the armistice is signed, I expect London’ll be drunk dry by half-past two. Don’t suppose you’ll get much out of the folk today, Harry.”
The giant smiled. “Not much use telling the cows about Armistices. Still, I don’t expect we’ll kill ourselves with work. Not today at all events. Old Tiger’s been after the skim again. Never saw such a dog for the milk.”
“Tiger o’ Sunflowers,” an enormous silver-brindled Dane, lounged up the drive; gave his master dignified greeting. Patricia, furred and gauntleted, came hurrying out of the house.
“Well, I may as well see you safe off the premises,” smiled Harry Tebbits. The three made their way to the “garrige.” Passing the stables, they heard Driver Garton’s, “Now then, you”; Evelyn and Primula’s raised voices; the stamp of hooves on tile. Wilhelmina, the bay filly who had succeeded Little Willie in Peter’s heart, was protesting as usual about her morning toilet. . . .
Peter and Corporal Hankins had spent all Sunday tinkering with the Crossley, rubbing away the grease of two years’ idleness, fitting new sparking-plugs, testing brake-shoes and magneto, filling her petrol-tank and polishing her brass-work. Still, the car looked her age.
“Charlie’ll have to give her a coat of varnish one of these days,” hazarded Charlie’s brother, tapping strong fingers on the bonnet. But the engine started sweetly enough; and Peter, running her out for Patricia to mount, felt conscious of the old driving-thrill.
“Shan’t be at Dilly-Dally’s till nine,” he said as she climbed up beside him. Harry ran to open the gate; Tiger o’ Sunflowers smelt at the Klaxon, bounded away barking at the bark of it; Evelyn and Primula waved good-bye from the stable-door. They were off.
By the meadow-patch it is a bare mile from Sunflowers to Glen Cottage; but the shortest road takes you half way to Arlsfield; circles a fair portion of the Tebbits-Jameson land before it dives towards the chestnut trees of Arlsfield Park.
It was a goodly November day; soft gray clouds, sun atween, hinting of rain to come.
They passed the eight-acre vegetable field,—inter-cropped, potatoes, already dug, with winter green-stuff, fat white-hearted savoys, inturned broccoli, curly-leaved kale and knee-high Brussels sprouts; they passed the “warren”—fenced dip of chalk pitted land on which Peter had turned down half a hundred Belgian Hare does to mate with the “original inhabitants”; they skirted two stubbles, and a new-sown patch of pedigreed wheat; hummed through the browning spinney—and made Glen Cottage by five minutes to nine.