it for the day.’
‘Dash it! I can ’phone a garage!’ protested Roger.
Dorothy, who realized (without altogether being aware of the fact) that Bob and Roger were, for the moment, antagonistic, and that she was the bone of contention, went at once to the telephone. Shedid not, in the ordinary course of events, readily accept orders from her brother, but on this particular occasion she took a perverse, particular pleasure in obeying him, for Roger met this obedience with a scowl.
The response from the garage was favourable. A car was forthcoming within twenty minutes. The three climbed into it in a holiday spirit which was particularly noticeable in Bob, who had not expected any kind of a holiday, and who, aided by Roger and Roger’s ashplant, ‘made the grade,’ as he put it, without disaster, and settled comfortably on the back scat.
The main road ran through fairly open country, but there was a prettier drive by way of secondary roads and a water-splash. Guided by Dorothy, who sat beside him, Roger drove carefully, as became one who did not know the road and who had (as Bob insisted) an invalid on the back seat, past fields and beside a golf course, and then on a right-of-way through a large and handsome park.
The road turned sharply then towards the east, and gave a view of the race-course. About two miles further on, it crossed the water-splash and then began to mount, although not steeply.
At the top of the rise the secondary road dropped southward, to merge with the main road somewhere nearer the coast, but the eastward course was continued by a lane just wide enough to take the car. This lane was part of an old Roman road, and some distance along it they saw the old mill and met the boy George.
The mill, with its enormous, slatted sails, stood up behind a small, dilapidated farmhouse. Roger had to pull up on rough grass by a crazy fence to let a farm-cart go by, and it was whilst they were waiting here that they saw George swinging on a gate. The gate gave on to a field on the slope of a hill. It was a ploughed field, dark with its level furrows and crowned at the top by a wood. The lane led onwards through the gate on which George was swinging, climbed the hill, and was lost among the trees.
The farm-cart turned into the farmyard, Roger let in his clutch, and the car crawled forward. George slid down from the gate and politely held it open. Roger stopped the car in the gateway, leaned out and said:
‘Hullo!’
‘Oh, good morning,’ said George, who, in shorts and a sweater, looked even more handsome than in polo-collar and riding breeches or in his evening clothes. ‘I say, I don’t think you’ll get much farther along this track. It ends in the wood up there, and then you’re stuck.’
‘Yes, I thought that myself,’ said Roger, ‘but there doesn’t seem room to turn here.’
‘Back into the farmyard. I’ll open the gate,’ said the boy. ‘The farmer’s gone to market, but his wife won’t mind a bit, so long as you give her a shilling. She collects quite a lot of money in the summer. She buys her boy’s boots out of motorists. She told me so just now. She saw you coming, so she’s ready for you.’
‘Does she get a shilling from everyone?’ Dorothy asked.
‘Mostly. She’s got a bull, you see, and as people have to get out of their cars to open the gate if she isn’t doing it for them, they mostly pay up, and let her do it.’
‘You’re a long way from home,’ said Roger, having digested and approved of the farmer’s wife’s thrift and sagacity.
‘Yes. I’ve been turned out,’ said George. ‘Mr Lingfield hasn’t come back, and they’ve sent to the police about him. I’m not supposed to know, but, of course, I do. I think I’ve been got out of the way.’
‘Mr Lingfield? Not——’
‘Yes, the man who was missing from the table. He’s a sort of uncle of mine. He owns the house. Aunt Mary and Great-aunt Catherine and I just live there. Anyway, he hasn’t
‘Dash it! I can ’phone a garage!’ protested Roger.
Dorothy, who realized (without altogether being aware of the fact) that Bob and Roger were, for the moment, antagonistic, and that she was the bone of contention, went at once to the telephone. Shedid not, in the ordinary course of events, readily accept orders from her brother, but on this particular occasion she took a perverse, particular pleasure in obeying him, for Roger met this obedience with a scowl.
The response from the garage was favourable. A car was forthcoming within twenty minutes. The three climbed into it in a holiday spirit which was particularly noticeable in Bob, who had not expected any kind of a holiday, and who, aided by Roger and Roger’s ashplant, ‘made the grade,’ as he put it, without disaster, and settled comfortably on the back scat.
The main road ran through fairly open country, but there was a prettier drive by way of secondary roads and a water-splash. Guided by Dorothy, who sat beside him, Roger drove carefully, as became one who did not know the road and who had (as Bob insisted) an invalid on the back seat, past fields and beside a golf course, and then on a right-of-way through a large and handsome park.
The road turned sharply then towards the east, and gave a view of the race-course. About two miles further on, it crossed the water-splash and then began to mount, although not steeply.
At the top of the rise the secondary road dropped southward, to merge with the main road somewhere nearer the coast, but the eastward course was continued by a lane just wide enough to take the car. This lane was part of an old Roman road, and some distance along it they saw the old mill and met the boy George.
The mill, with its enormous, slatted sails, stood up behind a small, dilapidated farmhouse. Roger had to pull up on rough grass by a crazy fence to let a farm-cart go by, and it was whilst they were waiting here that they saw George swinging on a gate. The gate gave on to a field on the slope of a hill. It was a ploughed field, dark with its level furrows and crowned at the top by a wood. The lane led onwards through the gate on which George was swinging, climbed the hill, and was lost among the trees.
The farm-cart turned into the farmyard, Roger let in his clutch, and the car crawled forward. George slid down from the gate and politely held it open. Roger stopped the car in the gateway, leaned out and said:
‘Hullo!’
‘Oh, good morning,’ said George, who, in shorts and a sweater, looked even more handsome than in polo-collar and riding breeches or in his evening clothes. ‘I say, I don’t think you’ll get much farther along this track. It ends in the wood up there, and then you’re stuck.’
‘Yes, I thought that myself,’ said Roger, ‘but there doesn’t seem room to turn here.’
‘Back into the farmyard. I’ll open the gate,’ said the boy. ‘The farmer’s gone to market, but his wife won’t mind a bit, so long as you give her a shilling. She collects quite a lot of money in the summer. She buys her boy’s boots out of motorists. She told me so just now. She saw you coming, so she’s ready for you.’
‘Does she get a shilling from everyone?’ Dorothy asked.
‘Mostly. She’s got a bull, you see, and as people have to get out of their cars to open the gate if she isn’t doing it for them, they mostly pay up, and let her do it.’
‘You’re a long way from home,’ said Roger, having digested and approved of the farmer’s wife’s thrift and sagacity.
‘Yes. I’ve been turned out,’ said George. ‘Mr Lingfield hasn’t come back, and they’ve sent to the police about him. I’m not supposed to know, but, of course, I do. I think I’ve been got out of the way.’
‘Mr Lingfield? Not——’
‘Yes, the man who was missing from the table. He’s a sort of uncle of mine. He owns the house. Aunt Mary and Great-aunt Catherine and I just live there. Anyway, he hasn’t
Similar Books
