“What is it, Pops?” answered a silvery voice; and a second figure joined the first—a girl in white.
“Why, look! Hanged if it isn’t an aeroplane, going like one o’clock, too.”
“Oh, how dreadful!” cried the girl, looking up. “I am sure it will fall, and there will be a horrid accident. Oh, do come away, Raymond!”
“Not I! This is hot stuff, Mopsy. By Jove, the fellow can steer the thing. He’s making for that shanty over there—and coming down like a lark. I say, Mops, give me a leg-up; I want to have a nearer squint at the machine.”
“But, Raymond, it’s no business of yours—it’s—it’s trespassing!”
“Trespassing be hanged! We’re next-door neighbours. Come, give me a shove up.”
He clutched the top of the fence; his sister, still feebly expostulating, gave him a most workmanlike hoist, and in a few seconds he disappeared on the other side. The girl waited a little; then turned and walked away.
Her brother meanwhile was hastening across the field towards the workshop, near which the aeroplane had by this time alighted. Halfway he was met by Timothy Ball, who touched his cap and said—
“Beg pardon, sir, but these are private grounds and you’re a trespasser.”
“That’s all right. My name’s Oliphant; we’re neighbours of yours, you know.”