“H’m,” said the Bishop. “Er—yes—most annoying. It lodged in a branch for a time probably, and then obeyed the force of gravity.”
The Vicar was rubbing his head. William wanted to enjoy the sight of the Vicar rubbing his head. He moved a little further up the branch. He forgot all caution. He forgot that the branch on which he was was not a very secure branch, and that the further up he moved the less secure it became.
There was the sound of a rending and a crashing, and on to the table between the amazed Vicar and Bishop descended William’s branch and William.
The Bishop gazed at him. “Why, that’s the boy,” he said.
William sat up among the debris of broken glasses and crockery. He discovered that he was bruised and that his hand was cut by one of the broken glasses. He extricated himself from the branch and the table, and stood rubbing his bruises and sucking his hand.
“Crumbs!” was all he said.
The Vicar was gazing at him speechlessly.
“You know, my boy,” said the Bishop in mild reproach, “that’s a very curious thing to do—to hide up there for the purpose of eavesdropping. I know that you are an earnest, well-meaning little boy, and that you were interested in my address this afternoon, and I daresay you were hoping to listen to me again, but this is my time for relaxation, you know. Suppose the Vicar and I had been talking about something we didn’t want you to hear? I’m sure you wouldn’t like to listen to things people didn’t want you to hear, would you?”
William stared at him in unconcealed amazement. The Vicar, with growing memories of acorns and shoes and “damns” and with murder in his heart, was picking up twigs and broken glass. He knew that he could not, in the Bishop’s presence, say the things to William and do the things to William that he wanted to do and say. He contented himself with saying:
“You’d better go home now. Tell your father I’ll be coming to see him to-morrow.”