“Ah, who’s to say? He’s got it in his arms still, and there it’ll be until he’s rightly come to himself. Are you feeling better now, my dear?”
“Yes, though I’m rather chokey, and my hands smart.”
“To be sure they do, and I’ve no oil to put on ’em. But I’ll get some soon, and if Mr. Greatorex is a man of his word—and I don’t say he isn’t—we’ll soon have you in a comfortable bed in a farm-house, and milk and cream, and—why, it’ll be a holiday in the country, what I’ve wanted for years. You’ll like that, won’t you, Lucy?” she asked, as the child ran up.
“Mounseer’s opened his eyes,” said Lucy. “I’m so glad. He smiled at me. And then he asked for Martin. And then he said some funny words I couldn’t understand. And then he told me to come and say ‘Thank you’ a thousand times to Martin. That was just his fun, of course, for I couldn’t say it so many times as that, could I?”
“That’s just his foreign way, my dear,” said Susan. “Once is enough with English people. Run back and tell him that Martin is all right, and we’re all going to a farm in the country. I do wish Gollop would come home.”
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH
ALL’S WELL
Not many hours later, in one of the comfortable rooms of a large farm-house near the village of Islington, Dick Gollop and his wife, Martin and Lucy and Gundra, and Mounseer—whose name was Monsieur Raoul Marie de Caudebec—had just finished the best meal they had had for many a day.
Mr. Greatorex—proving himself to be a man of his word—had sent them from the City in a hired coach, and arranged that their furniture should follow in a wagon. He himself had promised to come and see them as soon as he had had an interview with one of the sheriffs.