“What d’you mean,” gasped Mr. Rymell, “hitting people about with that hoe?”
“What d’you mean,” groaned Mr. Benshaw, “running across my strawberries?”
“We were going after that boy.”
“Pounds and pounds’ worth of damage. Mischief and wickedness.... Mumby!”
Mr. Rymell, suddenly realizing the true values of the situation, released Mr. Benshaw’s hands and knelt up. “Look here, Mr. Benshaw,” he said, “you seem to be under the impression we are trespassing.”
Mr. Benshaw, struggling into a sitting position was understood to enquire with some heat what Mr. Rymell called it. Schocks’s boy picked up the hat with the erotic brim and handed it to the horticulturist silently and respectfully.
“We were not trespassing,” said Mr. Rymell. “We were following up that boy. He was trespassing, if you like.... By the bye,—where is the boy? Has anyone caught him?”
At the question, attention which had been focussed upon Mr. Benshaw and his hoe, came round. Across the field in the direction of the sunlit half acre of glass the little tailor was visible standing gingerly and picking up his red slippers for the third time—they would come off in that loose good soil, everybody else had left the trail to concentrate on Mr. Benshaw—and Bealby—. Bealby was out of sight. He had escaped, clean got away.
“What boy?” asked Mr. Benshaw.
“Ferocious little beast who’s fought us like a rat. Been committing all sorts of crimes about the country. Five pounds reward for him.”