“I've fed my rabbits and Harry's; and we've been in the attic; Harry got his leg through the skylight.”
Mr. Bosengate drew in his breath with a hiss.
“It's all right, Daddy; we got it out again, it's only grazed the skin. And we've been making swabs—I made seventeen, Mummy made thirty-three, and then she went to the hospital. Did you put many men in prison?”
Mr. Bosengate cleared his throat. The question seemed to him untimely.
“Only two.”
“What's it like in prison, Daddy?”
Mr. Bosengate, who had no more knowledge than his little daughter, replied in an absent voice:
“Not very nice.”
They were passing under a young oak tree, where the path wound round to the rosery and summer-house. Something shot down and clawed Mr. Bosengate's neck. His little daughter began to hop and suffocate with laughter.
“Oh, Daddy! Aren't you caught! I led you on purpose!”