It was the first time his grandfather had heard the child pronounce an articulate word, and at sound of it he was unable to resist the impulse to lean forward a little more and gaze down at the perambulator and its occupants.
“Learnt to talk, has he?” he enquired, ungraciously enough, yet eyeing the little fellow with a sort of curiosity.
“Well, he can only say a few words,” explained the mother, almost stammering in her haste to bring out the information before the grandfather’s interest had waned. “‘Granfer’ was one o’ the first words he said. He says it very plain, don’t he?”
“Plain enough,” responded the farmer, gruffly, and he let the twigs which he had been holding slap back again into their ordinary position.
“He’ve come on a good bit since ye see’d him last,” hazarded the mother. “Folks about us thinks he’s come on wonderful. Don’t ye think he’s come on, father?”
Her father parted the screen of twigs again, and as the bearded face was thrust forth once more, Abel junior tilted himself back in his place and gleefully shouted “Cuckoo!”
For the life of him the grandfather could not help smiling. He did not speak, but gazed at the child for a moment or two, the lines of his countenance relaxing.
“Cuckoo!” cried Abel junior, anxiously watching the upper twigs of the hedge.
“He thinks you’m playin’ a game wi’ en,” explained the mother tremulously.
“Oh,” said Farmer Bolt, reflectively. “Do he? It’s more in my line to work nor to play though.” He loosed the twigs which immediately flew back into place, and Baby Abel, imagining that this was done solely for his benefit cried “Cuckoo!” again, and watched the top of the hedge with dancing eyes. When the farmer, with apparent inadvertence, looked forth again, he threw himself back once more with uproarious laughter, kicking out at the same time with sturdy little feet, clothed in very battered boots.