Jean clasped Tammy firmly with one arm and coiled the other round Maighda’s neck as the door opened rather noisily to disclose an irate-looking little gentleman in gold-rimmed pince-nez.
“If you please,” began Jean, in a still, small voice, “there iss a wee ball-y wass putted into your garden—will I get it?”
Mr. Knagg stood staring at his strange visitors, while Jean rubbed one pink foot over the other and Maighda sniffed at him dubiously. Tammy, with his customary reserve, betrayed no emotion whatever.
“Come!” said Mr. Knagg shortly, holding out his hand. As Jean disappeared Colin and Andrew flew into the back garden and swarmed up an apple tree, whence they surveyed their sister’s proceedings with interest.
“Wonder why men are so much decenter to girls than to us?” mused Andrew.
“Oh, well; his housekeeper likes us best, anyway. Everyone’s got their cranks.”
“Fore,” cried a clear little voice, and the ball fell with a soft “plop” at the foot of the apple tree.
“She throws very well for a girl,” said Colin as he dropped onto the grass. “Let’s finish the game.”
“What do you mean by ‘fore’?” asked Mr. Knagg.
“Heads, you know,” said Jean; but her host was more puzzled than ever, for he had not even a bowing acquaintance with the royal and ancient game. They stared at each other in silence for a minute, then Jean, remembering that one of the most important precepts of her clan was to accept no service without rendering some return, said shyly: “Will I sing you a song?”