MOLLY ARRANGES AFFAIRS
“HULLO!” said a voice.
Antony turned.
Molly’s dark head appeared above the bushes behind him.
“What are you crying for?” demanded Molly.
“I aren’t crying,” said Antony. And we may hope that the Recording
Angel turned a deaf ear.
“You--” began Molly. But, after all, she was tactful. “I ’spect it’s
just the sun in your eyes,” she remarked airily.
“It’s--it’s very sunny,” said Antony blinking.
Molly continued to look at him over the hedge. He looked at Molly.
And then Antony took a resolve. Perhaps instinct told him that a burden
shared is a burden half-lightened.
“I’m a beggar boy,” he announced succinctly.
“A beggar boy!” shrilled Molly. She was frankly amazed.
Antony nodded. He was experiencing a kind of gloomy joy at her
astonishment.
Molly gazed at him. Then:
“Indeed you’re not at all,” she snorted incredulously.
“I am,” said Antony, gloomily cheerful.
Molly cogitated, puzzled. Then her fertile imagination leaped to the
solution. Of course it was make-believe!
“What fun,” cried she, on a top note of pleasure. “But what are you
sitting there for if you are? Beggars go along the roads and beg.”
Antony looked alarmed.
“Oh, but perhaps I needn’t _begin_ just yet,” he protested.
“Why not!” cried Molly. You may be sure that she saw herself assisting
in the rôle. “It’s a lovely day. Let’s start off at once.”
Antony had qualms of conscience. It was forbidden to go beyond the
grounds.
“P’raps Granny wouldn’t like it,” he demurred. “P’raps I’d better ask
her first. I think I haven’t got to be one this d’rectly minute, you
know.”
Again Molly was frankly puzzled.
Then, once more, her brow cleared. She saw in the matter, though
vaguely, some threat of possible punishment for misdemeanours. But
here, assuredly, was actual opportunity to hand. It was too good to be
let slip.
“Indeed, never mind,” she urged. “If they’ll be making you into a
beggar any time, let’s just be beggars now, to show them we like it. We
do like it,” she concluded, loftily magnificent.
“But,” argued Antony, “it won’t be nice to be a beggar.”
“Nice!” echoed Molly ecstatic. “Nice! why ’twill be real beautiful, it
will. We’ll go in bare feet, and we’ll eat blackberries,--there’s a
few ripe already,--and we’ll get apples from the orchards. Sure, it’s
flint-hearted they’d be,” cried she on a note pathetic, “if they’d
begrudge the bite of an apple to two hungry children. And we’ll be
sleeping under a haystack, and we’ll paddle in the river, and--oh,
we’ll have fine times, we will that.”
The river won the day.
Have you, I wonder, the faintest conception of its allurement? Can
you see the water, clear as amber, rippling past mossy stones, feel
its delicious freshness against bare feet, hear the gurgling music
of its voice? Can you see the dragon-flies skimming its surface,
the ragged-robin massed on its banks, the rushes standing proud and
spearlike at its edge?
Anyhow Antony could.
He saw it all at a glance,--an irresistible, alluring prospect. He got
up from the ground. After all, he would not be alone.
“Come down to the gate,” said Molly, her eyes gleaming. And then she
slithered back into the field.
Going across the field two minutes later, she spoke.
“After we’ve paddled, we’ll walk to Stoneway, and beg along the road.”
“All right,” said Antony, but without much enthusiasm.
Anyhow there was the river first.