"Beg pawdon, sir, but the young gemman 'e wanted me to show 'im a nest or two o' rats down Becklington stream, sir—rare fat uns they be, sir, too."
"I—I do not approve of sport—of slaying innocent beings—even if they be but rodents; I must ask you to leave me."
The poet waved his hand.
The rubicund sportsman looked disappointed. "Beg pawdon, sir, I'm sure. Thought 's 'ow it were all right, sir."
"I do not blame you, my good man. I merely protest against the ruling spirit of destruction which our country worships so deplorably. You may go."
And all this while Tommy stood bare-headed on the lawn, filling his lungs with the morning's sweetness, and feeling the grip of its appeal in his heart and blood and limbs. A sturdy little figure he was, clad in a short jacket and attenuated flannel knickerbockers which left his brown knees bare above his stockings.
The blood in his round cheeks shone red beneath the tan, and there were some freckles at the bridge of his nose. In his hand was a battered wide-awake hat—his usual headgear—and the origin of his sobriquet—for he will, I imagine, be known as Tommy Wideawake until the crack of doom, and, maybe, even after that.
With all his appreciation of the day, however, no word of the conversation just recorded missed his ears, and I regret to say that when the red-cheeked intruder turned a moment at the garden gate, Tommy's right eyelashes trembled a moment upon his cheek while his lips parted over some white teeth for the smallest fraction of a second.