It was very warm, heavy weather; even Tom Tit had not much scamper in him, and his rider let him amble slowly along whilst he himself pushed his sailor hat to the extreme back of his head and yawned, opening his rosy mouth as wide as it would go.
“Men don’t yawn in their saddles, Jack,” said a voice, which was music in his ears.
“Oh!” he cried, with delight. He was on the north side of the Park, no one was near, and Brancepeth was walking where he had no business to be, as he was on foot. He came up to the child and greeted him, then turned to the groom:
“I want to speak to the Duke a minute or two. You will wait here,” he said, as he slipped a gold piece into the man’s hand. “Jump off, Jack, and come with me.”
Jack needed no second bidding.
The groom, with the sovereign in his whip hand, made no opposition, and Harry walked away with the boy across the grass, talking to him as they went of horsemanship and all its etiquette, while Jack’s face, gay and rosy in its happiness, was turned upward with adoring eyes.
“I thought I shouldn’t see you again, Harry,” he said, as he trotted along by his friend’s side. “We’re all going into the country to-morrow.”
“With your mother?” asked Brancepeth.
“No; mammy’s at Ems. Boo’s so cross ’cos she’s got to stay with us. She won’t play at anything.”
“When did your mother go?”