“Listen to the cucks crowin’!” said Micky.
“Damn the cocks!” cried Mr Boxall. “Go on—where is the lady?”
“I dinno,” said Micky; “but if yiz’l listen yiz’l hear her vice, and it’s ‘Micky, come afther me,’ she always does be cryin’. Aal dressed in white she is, wid a crown of gowld on her head, and it’s ‘Micky, come afther me,’ she does be cryin’. Whisht!”
“Why, dash it—it’s a lunatic!” cried Mr Boxall.
“Whisht!” said Micky, bending down, resting his hands on his knees and presenting an ear towards the ground, “I hear her fut.”
The next moment he had vanished from the scene. It was just as if Mr Boxall had kicked him into space.
“D—d lunatic!” said Mr Boxall, nursing his foot.
He made his way out from amidst the trees; as he left their shelter the solemn tones of the house clock striking eleven came floating across the park. From the woods the far-away whooping and shouting of the visionary, still impelled and still running, came like a voice heard in dreamland.