"Hullo, Roy!" It was his father's voice. "Are you murdering Tara up there? Come out of it!"
Roy, having lost his footing, was in no position to look down—or to disobey: and they proceeded to come out of it, with rather more haste than dignity.
Roy, swinging from a high branch for his final jump—a bit of pure bravado because he felt nervous inside—discovered, with mingled terror and joy, that his vagrant foot had narrowly shaved Aunt Jane's neat hard summer hat: Aunt Jane—of all people—at such a moment, when you couldn't properly explain. He half wished he had kicked the fierce little feather and broken its back——
He was on the ground now, shaking hands with her, his sensitive clean-cut face a mask of mere politeness: and Tara was standing by him—a jagged hole in her blue frock, a scratch across her cheek, and her hair ribbon gone—looking suspiciously as if he had been trying to murder her instead of doing her a knightly service.
She couldn't help it, of course. But still—it was a distinct score for Aunt Jane, who, as usual, went straight to the point.
"You nearly kicked my head just now. A little gentleman would apologise."
He did apologise—not with the best grace.
"My turn next," his father struck in. "What the dickens were you up to—tearing slices out of my finest tree!" His twinkly eyes were almost grave and his voice was almost stern. ("Just because of Aunt Jane!" thought Roy.)
Aloud he said: "I'm awfully sorry, Daddy. It was only ... Tara got in a muddle. I had to help her."
The twinkle came back to his father's eyes.