“Oh! Gaston,” cried Fay, dragging him away, “he’s not fit to touch.”
“He’s so sad,” said Gaston, simply. There were tears in the boy’s big brown eyes.
“Oh! he won’t be sad now,” said Hubert, “Mr. Busson says that he will stop being hungry by the time he has eaten all those oats.”
“Ah! one is often sad, when one is not hungry,” said Gaston, slowly.
But no one heeded his last remark.
Ruth was running across the Green, to call them back to the Inn, at the door of which the Gaybrook van was standing already, with old Mr. Busson frantically waving his whip at the scattered party.
What a scramble there was to pack not only everyone, but everyone’s newly-acquired property, into the tilted waggon.
For though Jack and Phil went off in search of their ponies, they committed divers articles, such as cocoa-nuts, walking sticks, in great variety, a top or two, some brilliant green performing frogs of vast size, a rat-trap, a marvellous kite, a stuffed pigeon for target practice, to Fay and Phoena, for the safety of which they were to hold themselves responsible.
The homeward drive, through the long winding lanes, in the soft golden light of the westering sun, was very delightful, if less noisy than the morning drive had been.
After the first few miles, Hubert and Marygold fell fast asleep, the latter on Fay’s lap. Hubert, who had yielded his place on the front seat to Gaston—Phoena having represented to him that it was rather selfish to monopolise it both ways—was dreaming a confusion of sights and sounds, with his head resting on Ruth’s shoulder, whilst Fay and Phoena were carrying on a low-voiced discussion.