"Stole 'em!" He ejaculated.
Joan's eyes opened wide. The possibilities of the situation were beginning to dawn on both of them.
"William—how'll you get home?"
William's expression was one of pure horror.
"Mean ole thing!" he said. "Simply stole 'em."
"William—what'll your mother say?"
They stared at each other in consternation, William clutched the table-cloth tightly round his neck.
At this moment a loud, angry voice came from the house. They fled precipitately to the summer-house. Isolated phrases reached them.
"Careless girl ... gossiping in the grocer's shop ... anyone might have come in ... not even locked the back door.... Heaven knows——"
Then they heard the violent slamming of the back-door. Both felt that the time had come for the adventure to end. The desert island had lost its charm. It must be after tea-time. The sun was already setting. In normal circumstances, they would have crept quietly from the garden and returned to their respective homes. But circumstances were not normal. Between William's pants and vest and the world at large was—not his usual long-suffering cloth suit—but a trailing and in certain places inadequate table-cloth. William's freckled face, with its expression of indignant horror, in its frame of wild, carrotty hair, had a curious, unexpected appearance at the top of the long white robe.