Preparations at last being completed they set off, Ronnie carrying the basket and scampering like a rabbit down the rocky path.
“If it wasn’t for Lesley, I’d never trust him so long out of my sight,” sighed Mrs. McLean, watching them from the doorway.
“Well, there’s Stumpy, you know,” said her husband, drawing near, “and Ronald climbs like a cat.”
“That’s just what he does do,” agreed Margaret. “I never knew a cat but could climb up a tree, but there’s a many that don’t know how to get down.”
Malcolm laughed in his good-humored way. “It’s a fine thing you’ve got your children on an island,” he said. “If they were on the mainland, you’d be worrying about them night as well as day.”
Lesley meantime was composing a piece of po’try in the secret language, which was to be a sort of ode to Stumpy on his return from foreign parts.
“Stump-ery home-ery,
No longer roam-ery.
Children are glad-ery,
So is their dad-ery.”