“Were you at the war?” he demanded.
“Yes.”
“Did you kill a German?”
“I’ve seen a German killed,” said Grant, evading a question which no soldier cares to discuss.
“Did you kill ‘em in the tummy?” the boy persisted.
“We’ll talk about that to-morrow. Now you hop up on to my shoulders, and I’ll tie the horses and then carry you home.”
He followed the boy’s directions until they led him to a path running among pleasant trees down by the river. Presently he caught a glimpse of a cottage in a little open space, its brown shingled walls almost smothered in a riot of sweet peas.
“That’s our house. Don’t you like it?” said the boy, who had already forgotten his injury.
“I think it is splendid.” And Grant, taking his young charge from his shoulder, stepped up on to the porch and knocked at the screen door.
In a moment it was opened by Zen Transley.