It was sunny. It was holiday time. They had each other and a dog. Boyhood could not wish for more. The whole world lay before them.
“Let’s go trespassin’,” said William the lawless.
“Where?” enquired Douglas.
“Hall woods—and take Jumble.”
“That ole keeper said he’d tell our fathers if he caught us in again,” said Ginger.
“Lettim!” said William, with a dare-devil air, slashing at the hedge with a stick. He was gradually recovering his self-respect. The nightmare memories of yesterday were growing faint. He flung a stone for the eager Jumble and uttered his shrill unharmonious war whoop. They entered the woods, William leading. He swaggered along the path. He was William, desperado, and scorner of girls. Yesterday was a dream. It must have been. No mere girl would dare even to speak to him. He had never played at fairies with a girl—he, William the pirate king, the robber chief.
“William!”
He turned, his proud smile frozen in horror.
A small figure was flying along the path behind them—a bare-headed figure with elaborate curls and very short lacy bunchy skirts and bare legs with white shoes and socks.
“William, darling! I thaw you from the nurthery window coming along the road and I ethcaped. Nurth wath reading a book and I ethcaped. Oh, William darling, play with me again, do. It wath so nith yethterday.”