“There’s a man sitting on the gate.” The statement was made with the frank obviousness of childhood.
John swung himself off the said gate, and turned. This latter proceeding was distinctly simpler to accomplish from the safety of solid earth than from the topmost of five bars. Doubtless his guardian angel prompted the action, for, on the moment of turning, his heart jumped, leaped, and pounded in a manner peculiarly perilous. Picture his danger with a heart in this condition had he retained his former attitude.
On the other side of the gate, coming across the grass, and not more than twenty paces from him, was a lady accompanied by two small boys.
She was a young lady, tall and slender, in a white linen frock, and a big shady straw hat. Her hair beneath it was red gold, like burnished copper, a vivid note of colour. The two boys, one on either side of her, were clad in emerald green knickerbockers, and soft white shirts. Floppy straw hats were on their heads. Beneath the hats you caught a glimpse of copper-coloured hair. A vivid, vital enough picture they presented. The smaller boy, four years old or thereabouts, gazed solemn-eyed towards the gate; the other, some two years or so his senior, pointed towards our John, his face eager, alive. A stranger was a bit of a rarity in those parts, it would appear.
John saw the woman turn towards the child, caught a hint of murmured words. The boy dropped the pointing hand. Doubtless she had made the suggestion—delicately put of course—that it is not altogether the best of manners to point at strangers, however unexpected their appearance, as if they were some curious beast newly escaped from the Zoo.
The lapse of time, from the first acclamation of John’s position on the gate, to the dropping of that accusing finger, had been of the briefest, nevertheless it had allowed for a few further steps to be taken across the grass, and the distance between John and the three had, at the outset, been none so great. It was clearly obvious that the intention of the three was to pass through the gate. Seeing this, John bent to the fastening. By good luck it was not padlocked. Had it been, it would have spoiled the dainty march of the procession, actually as well as figuratively. He swung the gate open, raising his hat at the same moment. She bent her head, a slight though entirely courteous gesture, gave “thank-you” in a low round voice.
“Now Heaven be praised,” murmured John, “that she did not say ‘thanks.’” By which token it will be seen that John was a trifle fastidious as to modes of expression.
The two boys, having defeated the difficulties of elastic beneath the chin, had likewise removed their hats. They accomplished the restoration of them to their heads with extraordinary dignity. John, beholding the feat, marvelled. Then the little cavalcade of three passed on across the heather.
John gazed after them.