The poet was hatless and flushed. From one hand dangled a catapult; in the other he clutched some convenient pebbles.
"Really," said the vicar, "I should never have thought it."
The poet sighed, and handed the weapon to Tommy.
"Run away now, old chap," he said, "and have a good time. I think I shall go home."
Tommy trotted off into the wood, and the vicar and the poet held back towards the village.
"How goes the experiment?" asked the former, magnanimously ignoring the scene he had just witnessed.
The poet shook his head.
"It is hard to say yet," he replied. "I have not seen any marked development of the poetical and imaginative side of him—and he brings some very queer friends to my house. But he's a good boy, on the whole, and the holidays have only just begun."
In the village street they paused.
"I—I want to go to the post-office," said the poet.