“Thank you,” he said, presently. There were drops of perspiration on his brow, but his voice was steady. “I’m something of a crock myself, and this happens to be one of my bad days. I came up here because I couldn’t stand the car any more—it’s waiting for me on the road. If you would not mind helping me——?”
They went along the boreen slowly, between the blossoming banks. The man rested heavily on Wally’s arm.
“Sure I’m not tiring you?” he asked, once. “You’re not fit yourself, yet.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” Wally answered. “Please lean as much as you like. Would you like a rest?”
“No—we’re nearly there. And I’m better.” His face was white, but he smiled up at the tall boy. Then a turn in the lane brought the high road in view, and, drawn up by the side, a big touring-car. The chauffeur, drowsing in his seat in the sun, became suddenly awake. He limped quickly towards his master.
“Sure I knew you had no right to be going up there alone,” he said, reproachfully. “Will you give me the other arm, sir?”
“I’m all right, Con. This gentleman has helped me splendidly.” But he put a hand on the chauffeur’s sleeve, more, Wally fancied, to pacify him than because he needed extra help.
In the car, he leaned back with a sigh of relief. It was luxuriously padded, and there were special cushions that the chauffeur adjusted with a practised hand.
“Awfully sorry to have been such a nuisance,” he said. “Thanks ever so much; you saved me a rather nasty five minutes.” He looked wistfully at Wally. “I suppose you wouldn’t come home with me?”
Wally hesitated. He wanted badly to get back to his party and to the trout that were so tantalizing and so engrossing. But there was something hard to resist in the tired eyes.