“I suppose,” said the fair-haired girl to William, “that you were walking down the road and the attack came on suddenly and you came in here for help and succumbed before you could get help.”
“Well,” said William with a burst of inspiration, “I was coming in here for my whistle when this vert thing came over me sudden and I fell down.”
“For your whistle, dear?” said the fair-haired girl in a puzzled voice.
“Yes,” said William brazenly, “Mr. what’s his name? The man what lives here?”
“Oh, Uncle Charles, Mr. Morgan.”
“Yes—well, this Mr. Morgan came out to me the other day to borrow my whistle an’ he said he’d give it me back if I called for it to-day. He asked if I’d just lend it him till to-day and said that it would be all ready for me to take back to-day if I called for it.”
“But—why did he want to borrow your whistle?” said the fair-haired girl, still puzzled.
“Jus’ to blow on. He liked it,” said William casually.
They looked at each other meaningly.
“Poor Uncle Charles,” said the dark-haired girl, “I’m afraid he’s—well, it sounds as if he were getting a little childish.”