A new diversion, however, served to put aside speculation for a time.
“Hullo, who’s that lout?” asked D’Arcy, as he and Wally, having shaken off the others for a season, were “taking a cool,” arm in arm near the playing-field gate.
The object of this remark was a stalwart, middle-aged, labouring man, who carried an American cloth bag in his hand, and, to judge by the mud on his garments, had travelled some distance. He was trying to open the gate into the field, and on seeing our two juniors beckoned to them inquiringly.
“You can’t get in there,” said Wally. “You’ll have to go to the other gate at the Watch-Tower.”
“Is this here Fellsgarth School, young master?” said the man.
“Rather,” replied Wally.
“Is the governor at home!”
“Who—Ringwood? I don’t know; they’ll tell you at the gate.”
“He’s come to mend the door of your young brother’s room, I expect,” said D’Arcy. “I hope he won’t bung up the squirt-hole while he’s about it.”
“No. I say, carpenter,” said Wally, as the man was about to turn off in the direction of the other gate, “when you mend that door in Forder’s, make it strong, do you hear? It gets kicked at rather by fellows. And don’t bung—”