He got on to the moss-grown root, placed his arms round the bole, and, scrambling like a great tom-cat, in half a moment was gone from sight.
“Come,” said Dicky to the girl, “let us go.”
“Wan minit,” came a voice from the tree.
“Well, what is it?”
“Sure, y’ ain’t goin’ to lave me!” complained the voice. “If they strike the ould tree they’ll sarch it sure. Misther Fanshawe!”
“Yes?”
“For the love of God, sit down an’ talk aisy to the young lady. There’s Con Cogan knows I’ve hid here, and wan or two more—the sight of the young lady will drive thim away as the blessed angels drives the divils.”
“Well, of all the cheek!” said Mr Fanshawe.
“Dicky, dear!” said Violet, laying her hand on his arm. “He’s running away.”
“Well, what of that?”