Arabs shinning off to their respective slums; they did not see the
London Police resume their respective beats, or the People of the
London Streets return to their respective kerbs and cornerstones. With
Lionel at their backs, they kept moving on. But it rather seemed as
though it was the world, not they, that moved.
The silver water of the Thames and the black towers of Parliament went
by them like visions. They saw the fiery smoke of Victorian trains
stream by like dragon’s breath. “Move on!” said Lionel. They heard the
dogs of Hackbridge bay at the moon, and smelt the Mitcham Lavender. Box
Hill rose like a dark wave on their left, and sank away as Leith Hill
rose like another on their right. “Move on!” said Lionel. The woods of
Surrey dissolved into the woods of Sussex. A river sleeping between
pink willow herb and purple loosestrife curled before them. “Move on!”
said Lionel. A spur of the Downs rolled up like a green ball. A deep
chalk road, cut like the Milky Way in the side of the hill, opened a
channel for their feet. “Move on!” said Lionel.
Gypsy and Ginger moved on. At the top of the hill Ginger sat down all
of a sudden.
“Lionel,” said she, “I can’t move another step.”
But Lionel did not answer. When they turned their heads he was not
there. He had just completed the longest move on the Police Records,
and was now speeding back to Scotland Yard to throw up his Roving
Commission.
[Illustration: GYPSY AND GINGER MOVE IN]
Gypsy and Ginger sat on the top of the Downs till daybreak. As the sun
came up, Ginger uttered a cry.
“Oh!” said Ginger. “Look!”
Gypsy looked, and saw that they were on the end of one chain of hills
that faced the end of another chain of hills. In the valley that lay
between, a river ran very full and level among green grass and gold
buttercups.
“There’s such a lot to look at,” said Gypsy. “Particularly what?”
“My cottage!” said Ginger, and rolled down the hill. Gypsy rolled after
her. But she picked herself up first, shook her head, and was along
the road like a hare. He tracked her to the cottage by the things
that fell out of her pockets, peppermints and pencils and penknives
and tangles of string. Just as Gypsy arrived at the cottage Ginger was
coming away from it. She looked extremely excited.
“Gypsy,” she said, “it’s empty! The Blacksmith’s Son isn’t there.” (She
had told him all about the Blacksmith’s Son on the wedding-day.) “I’m
going to see the Blacksmith.”
They found the Blacksmith alone at work in the Forge. He looked round
at them, and said to Ginger, “What d’ye want, missy?” “Where’s your
son?” asked Ginger. “Emigrated,” said the Blacksmith. “When?” asked
Ginger. “Day arter you was here,” said the Blacksmith. “Where’s Lizzie
Hooker?” asked Ginger. “Emigrated,” said the Blacksmith. “When?” asked
Ginger. “Day arter that,” said the Blacksmith. “What happened to them?”
asked Ginger. “Married. Ship-Ranch. Canada,” said the Blacksmith.
“Don’t they want to live in the cottage?” asked Ginger. “No,” said the
Blacksmith. “Then,” said Ginger, “I and Gypsy want to, please.”
The Blacksmith scratched his chin with his hammer. “I’m sorry, missy,”
said the Blacksmith, “but for three hundred years, ever since that
cottage were built, it’s been kept in the family for one of the
Blacksmith’s sons.”
“Have you any more sons?” asked Gypsy.
“None,” said the Blacksmith.
“Will that one ever come back?” asked Gypsy.
“Never,” said the Blacksmith.
“Adopt me!” said Gypsy.
The Blacksmith looked at Ginger, and adopted Gypsy. As soon as he’d
done it, he gave them the key of the cottage and got on with his job.
Gypsy and Ginger went to the shop and bought a pound of bulls’ eyes
and a bottle of gingerbeer; and then they walked back to the cottage
and moved in.
THE END.