heard aright? Was the boy daring to criticize the written word?
But Martin’s brain raced ahead of the farmer’s slow-rising wrath. He trembled at the abyss into which he had almost fallen. What horror if he lost an hour on this Saturday, the Saturday before the Feast, of all days in the year!
“I didn’t quite mean that,” he said, “but it doesn’t say why it was wrong for a census to be taken, and it does say that when the angel stretched his hand over Jerusalem the Lord repented of the evil.”
Bolland bent again over the book. Yes, Martin was right. He was letter perfect.
“It says nowt about unfairness,” growled the man slowly.
“No. That was my mistake.”
“Ye mun tak’ heed ageän misteäks o’ that sort. On Monday we begin t’ Third Book o’ Kings.”
So, not even the Feast would be allowed to interfere with the daily lesson.
Angèle had departed with the belated Françoise. Martin, running through the orchard like a hare, doubled to the main road along the lane. In two minutes he was watching the unloading of the roundabout in front of the “Black Lion.” Jim Bates was there.
“Here, I want you,” said Martin. “You winked at Angèle Saumarez yesterday.”
“Winked at wheä?” demanded Jim.
“At the young lady who lives at The Elms.”
“Not afore she pulled a feäce at me.”
“Well, if you wink at her again I’ll lick you.”
“Mebbe.”
“There’s no ‘mebbe’ about it. Come down to the other end of the green now, if you think I can’t.”
Jim Bates was no coward, but he was faced with the alternative of yielding gracefully and watching the showmen at work or risking a defeat in a needless battle. He chose the better part of valor.
“It’s neän o’ my business,” he said. “I deän’t want te wink at t’ young leddy.”
At the inn door Mrs. Atkinson’s three little girls were standing with Kitty Thwaites, the housemaid. The eldest, a bonnie child, whose fair skin was covered with freckles, ran toward Martin.
“Where hae ye bin all t’ week?” she inquired. “Are ye always wi’ that Saumarez girl?”
“No.”
“I heerd tell she was at your pleäce all hours. What beautiful frocks she has, but I should be asheämed te show me legs like her.”
“That’s the way she dresses,” said Martin curtly.
“How funny. Is she fond of you?”
“How do I know?” He tried to edge away.
Evelyn tossed her head.
“Oh, I don’t care. Why should I?”
“There’s no reason that I can tell.”
“You soon forget yer friends. On’y last Whit Monday ye bowt me a packet of chocolates.”
There was truth in this. Martin quitted her sheepishly. He drew near some men, one of whom was Fred, the groom, and Fred had been drinking, as a preliminary to the deeper potations of the coming week.
“Ay, there she is!” he muttered, with an angry leer at Kitty. “She thinks what’s good eneuf fer t’ sister is good eneuf fer her. We’ll see. Oad John Bollan’ sent ’im away wiv a flea i’ t’ lug a-Tuesday. I reckon he’ll hev one i’ t’ other ear if ’e comes after Kitty.”
One of the men grinned contemptuously.
“Gan away!” he said. “George Pickerin’ ’ud chuck you ower t’ top o’ t’ hotel if ye said ‘Booh’ to ’im.”
But Fred, too, grinned, blinking like an owl in daylight.
“Them as lives t’ longest sees t’ meäst,” he muttered, and walked toward the stables, passing close to Kitty, who looked through him without seeing him.
Suddenly there was a stir among the loiterers. Mrs. Saumarez was walking through the village with Mr. Beckett-Smythe. Behind the pair came the squire’s two sons and Angèle. The great man had called on the new visitor to Elmsdale, and together they strolled forth, while he explained the festivities of the coming week, and told the lady that these “feasts” were the creation of an act of Charles II. as a protest against the Puritanism of the Commonwealth.
Martin stood at the side of the road. Mrs. Saumarez did not notice him, but Angèle did. She lifted her chin and dropped her eyelids in clever burlesque of Elsie Herbert, the vicar’s daughter, but ignored him otherwise. Martin was hurt, though he hardly expected to be spoken to in the presence of distinguished company. But he could not help looking after the party. Angèle turned and caught his glance. She put out her tongue.
He heard a mocking laugh and knew that Evelyn Atkinson was telling her sisters of the incident, whereupon he dug his hands in his pockets and whistled.
A shooting gallery was in process of erection, and its glories soon dispelled the gloom of Angèle’s snub. The long tube was supported on stays, the target put in place, the gaudy front pieced together, and half a dozen rifles unpacked. The proprietor meant to earn a few honest pennies that night, and some of the men were persuaded to try their prowess.
Martin was a born sportsman. He watched the competitors so keenly that Angèle returned with her youthful cavaliers without attracting his attention. Worse than that, Evelyn Atkinson, scenting the possibility of rustic intrigue, caught Martin’s elbow and asked quite innocently why a bell rang if the shooter hit the bull’s-eye.
Proud of his knowledge, he explained that there was a hole in the iron plate, and that no bell, but a sheet of copper, was suspended in the box at the back where the lamp was.
Both Angèle and Evelyn appreciated the situation exactly. The boy alone was ignorant of their tacit rivalry.
Angèle pointed out Martin to the Beckett-Smythes.
“He is such a nice boy,” she said sweetly. “I see him every day. He can fight any boy in the village.”
“Hum,” said the heir. “How old is he?”
“Fourteen.”
“I am fifteen.”
Angèle smiled like a seraph.
“Regardez-vous donc!” she said. “He could twiddle you round—so,” and she spun one hand over the other.
“I’d like to see him try,” snorted the aristocrat. The opportunity offered itself sooner than he expected, but the purring of a high-powered car coming through the village street caused the pedestrians
