“Yes, sir,” replied Mark, for the sake of saying something, and feeling a little bit of a culprit; “twelfth cake, crackers, negus, lots of fun, something like a breaking-up at school. Miss Franklin will be there, and plenty more young people too.”
“Something like a breaking-up,” muttered the old man, “more like a breaking-down, I should think—I’ll come.”
The effect of this announcement was perfectly overwhelming. Mr Rothwell expressed his gratification with as much self-possession as he could command, and named the hour. Mrs Franklin checked an exclamation of astonishment with some difficulty. Poor Mary coughed her suppressed laughter into her handkerchief; but as for Mark, he was forced to beat a hasty retreat, and dashed down the stairs like a whirlwind.
The way home lay first down a narrow lane, into which they entered about a hundred yards from Mr Tankardew’s house. Here the rest of the party found Mark behaving himself rather like a recently-escaped lunatic: he was jumping up and down, then tossing his cap into the air, then leaning back on the bank, holding his sides, and every now and then crying out while the tears rolled over his cheeks.
“Oh dear! Oh dear! What shall I do? Old Tanky’s coming to our juvenile party.”
Chapter Two.
The Juvenile Party.
Let us look into two very different houses on the morning of January 6th.