“Do you see,” cried Phoena, her eyes flashing indignantly through her tears, as she turned to follow Ruth and Libbie, who between them were tenderly carrying Gaston indoors, “do you see Andrew must have put him up there and got off himself.”
“Did you, Andrew, did you?” asked the boys, closing round their cousin, who was making an attempt to run away.
“He—he heard me calling out, and he—he offered and—and—I only meant him to stand there just a minute whilst I rested, but—but I found that I couldn’t get back again—and then—then I thought that he must have broken his promise to me and got away, because when I peeped through the bushes, ever so long ago, I—I didn’t see the straw thing any more. Oh! don’t—oh! don’t, it wasn’t my fault, it—oh! don’t—oh! don’t.”
For Mr. Busson had seized Andrew by the arm and was brandishing his stick over his head.
“Well if ever I saw such a poor mean-spirited creature,” he cried. “There, take him you boys and give him a sound thrashing between you,” and with a rough shake, the farmer pushed Andrew towards his cousins.
But both Jack and Phil fell back from Andrew, as if by common consent.
“Touch him,” they cried, in tones of unfeigned disgust, as if he were something loathsome, and unconsciously echoing poor Gaston’s own words, “Touch him! ugh! licking’s too good for him,” and without another word they followed the girls into the house.
CHAPTER XXX.
“THE BESTEST BEST.”
“WELL, now my dear Faith, do tell me as clearly as you can what has happened. I find poor Di dangerously ill, and Andrew shut up in deep disgrace, and I hear that all through Andrew’s fault, the little French boy has broken his leg very badly. And whenever I ask for an explanation, it all seems to begin and end with a bee-room and a bee-hive. What does it all mean?”
It was poor Mrs. Durand who spoke.