“For us,” said Annabel. “I never!” and the children seized each other’s hands in their excitement; but whose hand was put out first this time it was impossible to say.
There was scarcely room for them all in the shop of the cobbler who lodged with Aunt Martha. Miss Margaret bought from him numbers of pairs of cheap boot-laces, for which she had no possible use, because she was a little ashamed of their invasion of the tiny shop, when she learned that the pony and trap did not belong to him, but was advertised by him for a friend who lived at West Draeth, just to do ’e a turn. In the name of his friend, the cobbler promised that if the sun shone the following morning “the gingle ’e should be at the door of Tommy’s house at ten o’clock without fail!”
In spite of his repeated assurance that there should be no mistake, Tommy was seized with a sudden misgiving on the way home and ran back to remind him not to forget.
“I’ve spoken to ’e,” he panted, when he was in line again, “an’ ’e says it’ll be there.” Then “I’m goin’ to tell my Mammy,” he shouted, and was off once more.
When the others reached the house Tommy was in the middle of a voluble and wholly unintelligible explanation, from which Mrs. Tregennis tried vainly to extract some meaning.
“Will you have an orange, Annabel?” asked Miss Margaret at the door.
All Annabel’s affectation had dropped from her this evening: she was just a normal child. As such she nodded, smiling broadly.
“Catch then,” and Annabel made a careful cup of her hands, and caught.
As the ladies went upstairs they were followed by Mrs. Tregennis with the tea.
“Mrs. Tregennis, will you have an orange?”