Just below, on the shore of the island, a large willow-tree had been overthrown by the tempest on the day of the battle, and lay prone in the water, but still attached to the land by its roots. The nuts were juicy and sweet, but the day was so pleasant that Bevis presently put the nuts down and extended himself on his back. High above hung the long brown cones of the fir, and the dark green of its branches seemed to deepen the blue of the sky. With half-closed eyes he gazed up into the azure, till Mark feared he would go to sleep.
“Tell me a story,” he said. “I’ll tickle you, and you tell me a story. Here’s a parrot’s feather.”
It was a wood-pigeon’s, knocked out as the bird struck a branch in his rude haste. Mark tickled Bevis’s face and neck. “Tell me a story,” he said.
“My grandpa is the man for stories,” said Bevis. “If you ask him to tell you the story of his walking-stick, he’ll tell you all about it, and then two or three more; only you must be careful to ask him for the walking-stick one first, and then he’ll give you five shillings.”
“Regular moke,” said Mark. “He stumped into London with the stick and a bundle, didn’t he, and made five millions of money?”
“Heaps more than that.”
“Now tell me a story.”
“Tickle me then—very nicely.”
“Now go on.”