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СКАЧАТЬ terrifyingly close behind him, and looking hastily round, he saw a most angry lady, in a bright blue dress with fur on it, like a picture, and very large wooden shoes, which had made the singlestick noise. Her eyes were very fierce, and her mouth tight shut. She did not look hideous, but more like an avenging sprite or angel, though of course we knew she was only mortal, so we took off our caps. A gentleman also bounded towards us over some vegetables, and acted as reserve support to the lady.

       HER VOICE WHEN SHE TOLD US WE WERE TRESPASSING WAS NOT SO FURIOUS.

      Her voice when she told us we were trespassing and it was a private garden was not so furious as Oswald had expected from her face, but it was angry. H.O. at once said it wasn't her garden, was it? But, of course, we could see it was, because of her not having any hat or jacket or gloves, and wearing those wooden shoes to keep her feet dry, which no one would do in the street.

      So then Oswald said we had leave, and showed her Mr. Red House's letter.

      "But that was written to Mr. Turnbull," said she, "and how did you get it?"

      Then Mr. Red House wearily begged us to explain, so Oswald did, in that clear, straightforward way some people think he has, and that no one can suspect for an instant. And he ended by saying how far from comfortable it would be to have Mr. Turnbull coming with his thin mouth and his tight legs, and that we were Bastables, and much nicer than the tight-legged one, whatever she might think.

      And she listened, and then she quite suddenly gave a most jolly grin and asked us to go on reading our papers.

      It was plain that all disagreeableness was at an end, and, to show this even to the stupidest, she instantly asked us to lunch. Before we could politely accept H.O. shoved his oar in as usual and said he would stop no matter how little there was for lunch because he liked her very much.

      So she laughed, and Mr. Red House laughed, and she said they wouldn't interfere with the papers, and they went away and left us.

      Of course Oswald and Dicky insisted on going on with the papers; though the girls wanted to talk about Mrs. Red House, and how nice she was, and the way her dress was made. Oswald finished his paper, but later he was sorry he had been in such a hurry, because after a bit Mrs. Red House came out, and said she wanted to play too. She pretended to be a very ancient antiquary, and was most jolly, so that the others read their papers to her, and Oswald knows she would have liked his paper best, because it was the best, though I say it.

      Dicky's turned out to be all about that patent screw, and how Nelson would not have been killed if his ship had been built with one.

      Daisy's paper was about Lady Jane Grey, and hers and Dora's were exactly alike, the dullest by far, because they had got theirs out of books.

      Alice had not written hers because she had been helping Noël to copy his.

      Denny's was about King Charles, and he was very grown-up and fervent about this ill-fated monarch and white roses.

      Mrs. Red House took us into the summer-houses, where it was warmer, and such is the wonderful architecture of the Red House gardens that there was a fresh summer-house for each paper, except Noël's and H.O.'s, which were read in the stable. There were no horses there.

      Noël's was very long, and it began—

      "This is the story of Agincourt.

       If you don't know it you jolly well ought.

       It was a famous battle fair,

       And all your ancestors fought there

       That is if you come of a family old.

       The Bastables do; they were always very bold.

       And at Agincourt

       They fought

       As they ought;

       So we have been taught."

      And so on and so on, till some of us wondered why poetry was ever invented. But Mrs. Red House said she liked it awfully, so Noël said—

      "You may have it to keep. I've got another one of it at home."

      "I'll put it next my heart, Noël," she said. And she did, under the blue stuff and fur.

      H.O.'s was last, but when we let him read it he wouldn't, so Dora opened his envelope and it was thick inside with blotting-paper, and in the middle there was a page with

      "1066 William the Conqueror,"

      and nothing else.

      "Well," he said, "I said I'd write all I knew about 1066, and that's it. I can't write more than I know, can I?" The girls said he couldn't, but Oswald thought he might have tried.

      "It wasn't worth blacking your face all over just for that," he said. But Mrs. Red House laughed very much and said it was a lovely paper, and told her all she wanted to know about 1066.

      Then we went into the garden again and ran races, and Mrs. Red House held all our spectacles for us and cheered us on. She said she was the Patent Automatic Cheering Winning-post. We do like her.

      Lunch was the glorious end of the Morden House Antiquarian Society and Field Club's Field Day. But after lunch was the beginning of a real adventure such as real antiquarians hardly ever get. This will be unrolled later. I will finish with some French out of a newspaper. Albert's uncle told it me, so I know it is right. Any of your own grown-ups will tell you what it means.

      Au prochain numéro je vous promets des émotions.

      PS.—In case your grown-ups can't be bothered, "émotions" mean sensation, I believe.

      The Intrepid Explorer And His Lieutenant

       Table of Contents

      We had spectacles to play antiquaries in, and the rims were vaselined to prevent rust, and it came off on our faces with other kinds of dirt, and when the antiquary game was over, Mrs. Red House helped us to wash it off with all the thoroughness of aunts, and far more gentleness.

      Then, clean and with our hairs brushed, we were led from the bath-room to the banqueting hall or dining-room.

      It is a very beautiful house. The girls thought it was bare, but Oswald likes bareness because it leaves more room for games. All the furniture was of agreeable shapes and colours, and so were all the things on the table—glasses and dishes and everything. Oswald politely said how nice everything was.

      The lunch was a blissful dream of perfect A.1.-ness. Tongue, and nuts, and apples, and oranges, and candied fruits, and ginger-wine in tiny glasses that Noël said were fairy goblets. Everybody drank everybody else's health—and Noël told Mrs. Red House just how lovely she was, and he would have paper and pencil and write her a poem for her very own. I will not put it in here, because Mr. Red House is an author himself, and he might want to use it in some of his books. And the writer of these pages has been taught to think of others, and besides I expect you are jolly well sick of Noël's poetry.

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