“I’m not afraid, either,” she gasped.
“Nor am I,” repeated Jack, and went a little faster.
Then they both began to run.
“Of course—we ought—to—get there—as quick—as—we can—so—as not to—waste—any—time,” Molly jerked out, apologizing as it were to herself and to Jack for their sudden haste.
They ran along the footpath for a short distance until, a little way ahead of them, they saw an open space in the wood, in the centre of which stood a house.
“Let’s—stop—Molly,” said Jack, breathlessly. They both pulled up and stood still for a few moments. “It wouldn’t—do—for—us—to run in—on—on—him like this. It might look as if—as if we were—as if——oh, well, it would look funny, you know.”
Molly agreed. So they waited until they had got their breath again, then they walked casually out into the open space. The trees stood round the clearing in a wide circle, and above the house was a big expanse of sky. It seemed quite light out here after the dim light of the wood.
It was a queer-looking house that faced them, but what it was about the house that made it queer Jack and Molly could not at first make out. Around it was a square of asphalt, and drawing nearer they saw that on the asphalt, all round the four sides, were rows of narrow white streaks, that looked like railings lying down flat; and this is what they actually proved to be—only they were not real railings, they were painted on the ground with white paint. The children looked up, and then they realized what it was that made the house look funny. Nearly everything on it and about it was not real but painted. The house itself was real, and so was the front door; but the knocker and handle and letter-box were all painted on. Three of the windows seemed real, but there were three more that were obviously painted on, and were obviously the work of some one not greatly skilled in the art of painting. There was a large tree painted on the asphalt, and a row of tulips, and a path bordered by painted stones that led up to the front door.
The children were gazing at these things in astonishment when the front door suddenly opened, and the owner of the house appeared on the threshold.
“Come inside,” he called affably, peering at them over the top of his spectacles. “The latch on the gate pulls downward. Don’t be afraid of the dog; he won’t hurt you if I speak to him. There, Percy, there! Down, sir! There’s a good dog!”