And, as such, Eric Lindon accepted him instantly. He took the cigar from his mouth, and delicately shook off the ash, while he considered. “The name sounds strange to me,” he said. “I doubt if I can help you.”
“It is not very far from Fairyland,” the Professor suggested.
Eric Lindon’s eye-brows were slightly raised at these words, and an amused smile, which he courteously tried to repress, flitted across his handsome face. “A trifle cracked!” he muttered to himself. “But what a jolly old patriarch it is!” Then he turned to the children. “And ca’n’t you help him, little folk?” he said, with a gentleness of tone that seemed to win their hearts at once. “Surely you know all about it?
‘How many miles to Babylon?
Three-score miles and ten.
Can I get there by candlelight?
Yes, and back again!’”
To my surprise, Bruno ran forwards to him, as if he were some old friend of theirs, seized the disengaged hand and hung on to it with both of his own: and there stood this tall dignified officer in the middle of the road, gravely swinging a little boy to and fro, while Sylvie stood ready to push him, exactly as if a real swing had suddenly been provided for their pastime.
“We don’t want to get to Babylon, oo know!” Bruno explained as he swung.
“And it isn’t candlelight: it’s daylight!” Sylvie added, giving the swing a push of extra vigour, which nearly took the whole machine off its balance.