THE BENT PIN CAUGHT THE BISHOP’S EAR,
AND THE BISHOP SAT UP WITH A
LITTLE SCREAM.
The Bishop sighed.
“He may have been a stranger, of course,” he said meditatively. “It seemed an earnest questing face—as if the boy wanted something—needed something. I hope my little talk helped him.”
“Without doubt it did, my Lord,” said the Vicar politely. “I thought we might dine out here—the days draw out so pleasantly now.”
Up in his tree, William with smirks and hand-rubbing and mincing (though soundless) movements of his lips kept up a running imitation of the Vicar’s speech, for the edification apparently of a caterpillar which was watching him intently.
The Vicar went in to order dinner in the garden. The Bishop drew the delicate handkerchief once more over his rubicund features. In the tree William abandoned his airy pastime, and his face took on again the expression of soulful earnestness that had pleased the Bishop.
The breast of the Bishop on the lawn began to rise and sink. The figure of the Vicar was visible at the study window as he gazed with fond pride upon the slumbers of his distinguished guest. William dared not descend in view of that watching figure. Finally it sat down in a chair by the window and began to read a book.
Then William began to act. He took from his pocket a bent pin attached to a piece of string. This apparatus lived permanently in his pocket, because he had not given up hope of catching a trout in the village stream. He lowered this cautiously and drew the bent pin carefully on to the white linen expanse.
FROM THE TREE WILLIAM MADE A
LAST DESPERATE EFFORT.