A Knight on Wheels. Ian Hay

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СКАЧАТЬ heels on the second and her long black legs tucked up beneath her. She had taken off her jacket, and was using it as a cushion to mitigate the hardness of her perch. She was dressed in a blue cotton frock, which was gathered in round her waist with a shiny red leather belt. At least Philip considered it red: the little girl would have explained that it was cérise.

      She also continued to smile. Her teeth were very small and regular, her eyes were soft and brown, and some of her hair had blown up across the front of her tam-o-shanter, which matched the colour of her belt.

      Philip stood stock still, and surveyed her a little less severely.

      "Hallo, boy!" said the little girl again.

      "Hallo!" said Philip, in guarded tones.

      "I saw you on Sunday," the little girl informed him.

      "Yes, I know," said Philip coldly, and prepared to pass on. Uncle Joseph's warning had recurred to him with the mention of Sunday.

      "Don't go," said the small siren on the gate.

      "I think I will," said Philip.

       "Why?"

      Philip hesitated. Uncle Joseph had trained him always to say exactly what he thought, and never to make excuses. But he experienced a curious difficulty in informing this little creature that he was leaving her because she belonged to a dangerous and unscrupulous class of the community. It was the first stirring of chivalry within him. So he did not reply, but began to move away, rather sheepishly.

      The little girl promptly unlimbered her stern-chasers, and the scornful accusation rang out:—

      "You're shy!"

      Into an ordinary boy such an insult would have burned like acid. But Philip merely said to himself thoughtfully, as he walked away:—

      "I wonder if I am shy?"

      Then presently he decided:—

      "No, I'm not: I can't be, because I wanted to stay and talk to her!"

      He walked on a few yards, and then paused again. Boy nature, long dormant, was struggling vigorously to the surface.

      "I won't be called shy!" he said to himself hotly.

      He turned and walked quickly back.

      The little girl was still sitting on the gate, studiously admiring the sunset. Once more Philip stood before her.

      "I say," he said nervously, "I'm not shy."

      The little girl looked down languidly.

      "Have you come back again?" she enquired.

      "Yes," said Philip, scarlet.

       "Why?"

      "I wanted to tell you," pursued Philip doggedly, "that I wasn't shy just now."

      The little girl nodded her head.

      "I see," she said coldly. "You were not shy—only rude. Is that it?"

      The greater part of Philip's short life had been spent, as the reader knows, in imbibing the principle that a man not only may, but, if he values his soul, must, be rude to women upon all occasions. It is therefore regrettable to have to record that at this point—at the very first encounter with the enemy—Philip threw his principles overboard.

      "Oh, no," he said in genuine distress. "I didn't mean to be rude to you. It—it was a different reason."

      The little girl made no reply for a moment, but stood up on her heels and unrolled her cushion to double its former width.

      "Come up here and tell me about it," she said maternally, patting the seat she had prepared.

      Philip began to climb the gate. Then he deliberately stepped down again.

      "Aren't you coming?" asked the little girl, with the least shade of anxiety in her voice.

      "Yes," said Philip. "But I'll come up on the other side of you. Then I shall be able to keep the wind off you a bit. It's rather cold."

      And he did so. Poor Uncle Joseph!

      Now they were on the gate together, side by side, actually touching. Philip, feeling slightly dazed, chiefly noted the little girl's hands, which were clasped round her knees. His own hands were broad, and inclined to be horny; hers were slim, with long fingers.

      The little girl turned to him with a quick, confiding smile.

      "Now tell me why," she commanded.

      "Why what?" asked Philip reluctantly.

      "Why you went away just now."

      Philip took a deep breath, and embarked upon the task of relegating this small but dangerous animal to her proper place in the Universe.

      "It was—it was what Uncle Joseph said," he explained lamely.

      "Who is Uncle Joseph?"

      "He—I live with him."

      "Haven't you got a father or a mother?" A pair of very kind eyes were turned full upon him.

      "No."

      "Poor boy!"

      To Philip's acute distress a small arm was slipped within his own.

      "I have a father and a mother," said the little girl. "You may come and see them if you like."

      Philip, who intended to cut the whole connection as soon as he could decently escape from the gate, thanked her politely.

      "Only don't come without telling me," continued his admonitress, "because Father isn't always in a good temper."

      Philip thought he might safely promise this.

      "Now tell me what Uncle Joseph said," resumed the little girl. "What is your name?" she added, before the narrative could proceed.

       "Philip."

      "Philip what?"

      "Philip Meldrum."

      "Shall I call you Phil?" enquired the lady, with a friendly smile.

      "Yes, please," replied Philip, feeling greatly surprised at himself.

      There was a pause. Philip became dimly conscious that something was expected of him—something that had nothing to do with Uncle Joseph. He turned to his companion for enlightenment. Her face was slightly flushed, and her eyes met his shyly.

      "What is your name?" he enquired cautiously.

      "Marguerite Evelyn Leslie Falconer," replied the little girl, in tones of intense relief.

      "Oh," СКАЧАТЬ