“When is your birthday?” he inquired, and the boy, entirely taken off his guard, replied, “To-morrow!” and then, again entrenching himself safely behind his bastion of surly reserve, demanded in trenchant tones, “What’s that got to do with you?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing!” replied Toole, “only I thought I’d like to know if there was anything in particular you’d like for a birthday present.”
The boy, at first obdurately silent, at last yielded under pressure, and confessed that the dream of his life was to possess a bicycle.
“Why not?” said Toole.
“There’s nobody going to give me no bicycle,” replied the boy, although his mood was now obviously melting under the infectious influence of the comedian’s good-humour, and as we went towards the gate to get into our carriage the boy followed us, as though under some kind of spell induced by Toole’s suggestion, “that you never knew who might send you the present you wanted.”
It chanced that just at the entrance to the tea-gardens two bicycles were leaning against a hedge, and their two owners, flushed with exercise, were seated in jerseys beneath a tree quaffing a pot of ale.
“Why,” cried Toole, in tones of wondering amazement, as though he saw before him the fulfilment of his own prophecy, “there is your bicycle!”
The boy was bewitched. Without halt or pause he seized one of the vacant machines, and before interference was possible had mounted it and was riding down the road to Highgate, the owner, roused from his refreshment, starting in pursuit.
In a moment he returned, drawing his machine with one hand and holding the boy by the collar with the other.
“This is your fault,” he cried indignantly to Toole, “you encouraged him.”