“But he won’t want hitting,” objected Miss Margaret. “I expect he’ll trot along awfully well and won’t want any hitting at all.”
Tommy looked unconvinced, and as they left the boat at the slip he turned the conversation into other channels. “Lugger a-buildin’ over there,” he pointed with his thumb. “Must be for West Draeth as ’tis on that side. I seen one lanch one evenin’ an’ one lanch the next.”
By the time Tommy had imparted all he knew of boatbuilding and launches they had reached Mr. Chard’s door. The gingle was already outside, and while the pony was being brought round a small crowd of boys collected and watched with interest.
“Hallo, Tommy Tregennis.”
“Hallo!”
“What be a-doin’ over here, Tommy; ain’t there room for ee to East Draeth?”
“Goin’ to Polderry,” said Tommy, proudly, and fell into the gingle as he spoke.
“Do these boys go to school with you, Tommy?” and Tommy told Miss Margaret that they did.
“They West Drayers do play their own side evenin’s,” he explained, “when they comes over to we they comes with their mothers an’ just sits on our sands, an’ that do be just so good as nothin’, that be.”
From every doorway people came out to see the start of the gingle for Polderry. Everybody waved and everybody shouted, and it was for all the world like a Sunday-school treat. Near the Post Office a louder cry than ever came from Tommy and was at once echoed by Ruthie, and both children rose up and waved their long white mufflers.