"Lucien and Angel--?" I began, enquiringly.
He waved his hand, with some superiority.
"Inspiration cannot be commanded," he observed. "They shall wait until
Saturday."
We sat down in the shade, and conversation flagged. Presently steps
approached, pacing slowly along the wooden platform.
It was the vicar.
He looked a little conscious, and no doubt read the enquiry in my eyes.
"It is too hot," he said, "to drive to Becklington before tea," and the
three of us sat silently down together.
At last a porter came, and looked up and down the line.
Apparently he saw no obstruction, for he proceeded to lower the signal.
We rose and paced to and fro, with valorously concealed agitation.
A trap dashed along the white road, and some one ran, breathlessly, up
the stairs.
He seemed a little surprised at the trio which awaited him.
"I thought you had two cases in Bonnor," I observed, with a piercing
glance.
The doctor looked away, but did not reply, and I forbore to press the
point.
Far down the line shone a cloudlet of white smoke and the gleam of brass
through the dust.
"Becklington, Harrowley, Borcombe and Hoxford train," roared the porter,
apparently as a reminder to the station-master, for there were no
passengers.
We stood, a nervous group, in the shadow of the waiting-room.
"Poor boy--poor little chap," said the vicar at last. "We must cheer
him up--God bless him."
Youth is not careless of grief, but God has made it the master of
sorrow, and Tommy's eyes were bright, as he jumped onto the platform.
He smiled complacently into our anxious faces--so genuine a smile that
our poor carved ones relaxed into reality.
"I've got a ripping chameleon," he observed cheerfully.