She sprang toward the horses. Martin alone followed.
“Come on!” she screamed. “Martin will pay for the lot. He has heaps of money.”
No second invitation was needed. Several times the whole party swung round with lively yelling. From the roundabouts they went to the swings; from the swings to the cocoanut shies. Here they were joined by the Beckett-Smythes, who endeavored promptly to assume the leadership.
Martin’s blood was fired by the contest. He was essentially a boy foredoomed to dominate his fellows, whether for good or evil. He pitched restraint to the winds. He could throw better than either of the young aristocrats; he could shoot straighter at the galleries; he could describe the heroic combat between the boxer and Velveteens; he would swing Angèle higher than any, until they looked over the crossbar after each giddy swirl.
The Beckett-Smythes kept pace with him only in expenditure, Jim Bates being quickly drained, and even they wondered how long the village lad could last.
The ten shillings were soon dissipated.
“I want that sovereign,” he shouted, when Angèle and he were riding together again on the hobby-horses.
“I told you so,” she screamed. She turned up her dress to extricate the money from a fold of her stocking. The light flashed on her white skin, and Frank Beckett-Smythe, who rode behind with one of the Atkinson girls, wondered what she was doing.
She bent over Martin and whispered:
“There are two! Keep the fun going!”
The young spark in the rear thought that she was kissing Martin; he was wild with jealousy. At the next show—that of a woman grossly fat, who allowed the gapers to pinch her leg at a penny a pinch—he paid with his last half-crown. When they went to refresh themselves on ginger-beer, Martin produced a sovereign. The woman who owned the stall bit it, surveyed him suspiciously, and tried to swindle him in the change. She failed badly.
“Eleven bottles at twopence and eleven cakes at a penny make two-and-nine. I want two more shillings, please,” he said coolly.
“Be aff wid ye! I gev ye seventeen and thruppence. If ye thry anny uv yer tricks an me I’ll be afther askin’ where ye got the pound.”
“Give me two more shillings, or I’ll call the police.”
Mrs. Maguire was beaten; she paid up.
The crowd left her, with cries of “Irish Molly!” “Where’s Mick?” and even coarser expressions. Angèle screamed at her:
“Why don’t you stick to ginger-beer? You’re muzzy.”
The taunt stung, and the old Irishwoman cursed her tormentor as a black-eyed little witch.
Angèle, seeing that Martin carried all before him, began straightway to flirt with the heir. At first the defection was not noted, but when she elected to sit by Frank while they watched the acrobats the new swain took heart once more and squeezed her arm.
Evelyn Atkinson, who was in a smiling temper, felt that a crisis might be brought about now. There was not much time. It was nearly ten o’clock, and soon her mother would be storming at her for not having taken herself and her sisters to bed, though, in justice be it said, the girls could not possibly sleep until the house was cleared.
Ernest Beckett-Smythe was her cavalier at the moment.
“We’ve seen all there is te see,” she whispered. “Let’s go and have a dance in our yard. Jim Bates can play a mouth-organ.”
Ernest was a slow-witted youth.
“Where’s the good?” he said. “There’s more fun here.”
“You try it, an’ see,” she murmured coyly.
The suggestion caught on. It was discussed while Martin and Jim Bates were driving a weight up a pole by striking a lever with a heavy hammer. Anything in the shape of an athletic feat always attracted Martin.
Angèle was delighted. She scented a row. These village urchins were imps after her own heart.
“Oh, let’s,” she agreed. “It’ll be a change. I’ll show you the American two-step.”
Frank had his arm around her waist now.
“Right-o!” he cried. “Evelyn, you and Ernest lead the way.”
The girl, flattered by being bracketed publicly with one of the squire’s sons, enjoined caution.
“Once we’re past t’ stables it’s all right,” she said. “I don’t suppose Fred’ll hear us, anyhow.”
Fred was at the front of the hotel watching the road, watching Kitty Thwaites as she flitted upstairs and down, watching George Pickering through the bar window, and grinning like a fiend when he saw that somewhat ardent wooer, hilarious now, but sober enough according to his standard, glancing occasionally at his watch.
There was a gate on each side of the hotel. That on the left led to the yard, with its row of stables and cart-sheds, and thence to a spacious area occupied by hay-stacks, piles of firewood, hen-houses, and all the miscellaneous lumber of an establishment half inn, half farm. The gate on the right opened into a bowling-green and skittle-alley. Behind these lay the kitchen garden and orchard. A hedge separated one section from the other, and entrance could be obtained to either from the back door of the hotel.
The radiance of a full moon now decked the earth in silver and black; in the shade the darkness was intense by contrast. The church clock struck ten.
Half a dozen youngsters crept silently into the stable yard. Angèle kicked up a dainty foot in a preliminary pas seul, but Evelyn stopped her unceremoniously. The village girl’s sharp ears had caught footsteps on the garden path beyond the hedge.
It was George Pickering, with his arm around Kitty’s shoulders. He was talking in a low tone, and she was giggling nervously.
“They’re sweetheartin’,” whispered a girl.
“So are we,” declared Frank Beckett-Smythe. “Aren’t we, Angèle?”
“Sapristi! I should think so. Where’s Martin?”
“Never mind. We don’t want him.”
“Oh, he will be furious. Let’s hide. There will be such a row when he goes home, and he daren’t go till he finds me.”
Master Beckett-Smythe experienced a second’s twinge at thought of the greeting he and his brother would receive at the Hall. But here was Angèle pretending timidity and cowering in his arms. He would not leave her now were he to be flayed alive.
The footsteps of Pickering and Kitty died away. They had gone into the orchard.
Evelyn Atkinson breathed freely again.
“Even if Kitty sees us now, I don’t care,” she said. “She daren’t tell mother, when
