“What hantle of gibberish is that?” says Monsey Laman himself.
“I is to tumble the poppenoddles,” cries the bullet-headed gentleman. And presently the rustic young gamester is tossing somersets for a penny.
In the middle of the meadow, and encircled by a little crowd of excited male spectators, two men are trying a fall at wrestling. Stripped to the waist, they are treating each other to somewhat demonstrative embraces.
At a few yards' distance another little circle, of more symmetrical outlines, and comprising both sexes, are standing with linked hands. A shame-faced young maiden is carrying a little cushion around her companions. They are playing the “cushion game.”
At one corner of the field there is a thicket overgrown with wild roses, white and red. Robbie Anderson, who has just escaped from a rebellious gang of lads who have been climbing on his shoulders and clinging to his legs, is trying to persuade Liza Branthwaite that there is something curious and wonderful lying hidden within this flowery ambush.
“It's terrible nice,” he says, rather indefinitely. “Come, lass, come and see.”
Liza refuses plump.
The truth is that Liza has a shrewd suspicion that the penalty of acquiescence would be a kiss. Now, she has no particular aversion to that kind of commerce, but since Robbie is so eager, she has resolved, like a true woman, that his appetite shall be whetted by a temporary disappointment.
“Not I,” she says, with arms akimbo and a rippling laugh of knowing mockery. Presently her sprightly little feet are tripping away.
Still encircled by half a score of dogs, Robbie returns to the middle of the meadow, where the wrestlers have given way to some who are preparing for a race up the fell. Robbie throws off his coat and cap, and straps a belt about his waist.