“What!” John Bolland laid down the Bible and rested both hands on the arms of the chair to steady himself. Had he heard aright? Was the boy daring to criticize the written word?
But Martin’s brain raced ahead of the farmer’s slow-rising wrath. He trembled at the abyss into which he had almost fallen. What horror if he lost an hour on this Saturday, the Saturday before the Feast, of all days in the year!
“I didn’t quite mean that,” he said, “but it doesn’t say why it was wrong for a census to be taken, and it does say that when the angel stretched his hand over Jerusalem the Lord repented of the evil.”
Bolland bent again over the book. Yes, Martin was right. He was letter perfect.
“It says nowt about unfairness,” growled the man slowly.
“No. That was my mistake.”
“Ye mun tak’ heed ageän misteäks o’ that sort. On Monday we begin t’ Third Book o’ Kings.”
So, not even the Feast would be allowed to interfere with the daily lesson.
Angèle had departed with the belated Françoise. Martin, running through the orchard like a hare, doubled to the main road along the lane. In two minutes he was watching the unloading of the roundabout in front of the “Black Lion.” Jim Bates was there.
“Here, I want you,” said Martin. “You winked at Angèle Saumarez yesterday.”