“Yes,” said William briefly.
“That’s right! Handsomely now, handsomely,” for the shutter was jamming in its groove. William knew from his uncle that “handsomely” meant slowly and with care. The shutter responded to the coaxing. The others followed.
“Belay!” said Mr. Marsh, wiping his forehead, for, like William, he perspired easily. When he turned round William had gone. The Movies had taught him, though he knew it not, the value of dramatic effect. He continued to watch Mr. Marsh through the crack in the postern—it was the little wooden door at the end of the right of way through the Park—and when, an hour or so later, Mr. Marsh came out of his shop and headed towards it, William retired backwards into the high fern and brambles. The manœuvre would have rejoiced Mr. Hale’s heart, for generally William moved like an elephant with its young. He turned up, quite casually, when Mr. Marsh had puffed his way again into the empty camp. Carpenter was off in pursuit of rabbits, with a pocket full of fine picture-wire. It was the first time William had ever done the honours of any establishment. He came to attention and smiled.
“Well! Well!” Mr. Marsh nodded friendlily. “What are you?”
“Camp-guard,” said William, improvising for the first time in his life. “Can I show you anything, sir?”
“No, thank’ee. My son was a Scout once. I’ve just come to look round at things. ’No one tryin’ any cookin’ to-day?”
“No, sir.”
“’Bout’s well. Pore boys! What you goin’ to have for dinner? Tinned stuff?”
“I expect so, sir.”
“D’you like it?”