“Tod, then! Do please wake up: it is past ten.”
A low growl answered me. And in that same moment I became aware of some mysterious stir outside the front-gate. People seemed to be trying it. The grenadier always locked it at night.
“Tod! Tod! There are people at the gate—trying to get in.”
The tone and the words aroused him. “Eh? What do you say, Johnny? People are trying the gate?”
“Listen! They are whispering to one another. They are trying the fastenings.”
“What on earth does anybody want at this time of night?” growled Tod. “And why can’t they ring like decent people? What’s your business?” he roared out from the window. “Who the dickens are you?”
“Hush, Tod! It—it can’t be the Squire, can it? Come down here to look after us.”
The suggestion silenced him for a moment.
“I—I don’t think so, Johnny,” he slowly said. “No, it’s not the Squire: he would be letting off at us already at the top of his voice; he wouldn’t wait to come in to do it. Let’s go and see. Come along.”
Two young men stood at the gate. One of them turned the handle impatiently as we went down the path.