So Martin, fearless of consequences, hunted up “Rokeby,” and read it with an interest hardly lessened by the fact that that particular poem is the least exciting of the magician’s verse. At last the light failed and the table was laid for supper, so the boy’s reading was disturbed. More than once he fancied he had heard at the back of the house a long, shrill whistle which sounded familiar. Curiosity led him to the meadow. He waited a little while, and again the whistle came from the lane.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Me. Is that you, Martin?”
“Me” was Tommy Beadlam, but his white top did not shine in the dark.
“What’s up?”
“Come nearer. I mustn’t shout.”
Wondering what mystery was afoot, Martin approached the hedge.
“Yon lass,” whispered Tommy—“I can’t say her name, but ye ken fine wheä ’tis—she’s i’ t’ fair ageän.”
“What! Angèle?”
“That’s her. She gemme sixpence te coom an’ tell yer. I’ve bin whistlin’ till me lips is sore.”