The boys looked at each other in surprise, and Jack murmured, “Well, did you ever?”
“My name’s George Clayton,” the boy rattled on. “Coming?—good! Now mind—don’t back out.”
Next instant, Bucephalus leaped forward, George Clayton waved his hand to the boys, and galloped down the road.
“Well, doesn’t it beat the Dutch that we should run into him like this?” mused Aleck. “Good-looking chap, too; but cheeky. Nice of him to invite us to the house, though. Shall we say anything about Norman?”
“Not at first,” advised Jack. “Guess we’ll meet him at the house, anyway; and if we don’t, leave the talking to me.”
When the boys arrived at the gate, and entered between the high, sculptured posts which stood on either side, horse and rider had disappeared back of the palatial Greek mansion.
Shrubbery and flower beds were strewn about with orderly profusion; cedars and other trees dotted the green, sloping lawn, and statues, mellowed in tone by contact with the elements, stood out sharply against the background. On the soft, languorous air floated the mingling scents of many flowers, and the sun-kissed paths, and shady nooks, and rustic benches were a delight to look upon.
Soon they reached the white-pillared pergola, heavy in the scent of grape-vines, with the thick masses of leaves flashing green and gold, and the graveled walk beneath streaked with purple shadows. On either side of a broad flight of steps leading to the terrace around the mansion were Greek vases mounted on high pedestals.
For several moments, the boys surveyed the handsome façade, with its six columns and sculptured reliefs in the tympanum above, and wondered how it must feel to live in such a place.
Then George Clayton, with undignified haste, appeared around a corner.