Читать книгу The Happy Traveller - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 5

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IT was the question of clothes that was the great problem. Food did not worry Teddy—so far. He was well fed, and John Price had insisted on stuffing his pockets with all that remained of Mrs. Price’s sandwiches; enough, with economy, to keep him going for a whole day. Money he had, four whole shillings and sixpence. That, translated into terms of buns, meant fifty-four, which seemed an unlimited subsistence: translated into bread it meant even more, but it was pleasanter to think in buns. Work, he was certain, waited for any handy boy. But how was he to buy buns, how ask for work, in the horrible clothes that cried aloud to all the world that here was a boy escaped from an Orphanage?

Already the police would be looking out for him in every town. By to-morrow the papers would be telling all the country that he had run away, perhaps even offering a reward for his return, as was done with escaped prisoners. He did not know for certain, but he thought it likely. Thanks to the van, he had left no trail for Mr. Pullinger to follow, but he knew that Mr. Pullinger would be only the more annoyed on that account, and would leave no stone unturned to find him.

What could he do? He racked his brain unavailingly. He was desperate enough to steal clothes anywhere: the trouble was that there seemed nowhere that he might steal. The farms he passed were all occupied; smoke curled from their chimneys, people moved about, dogs barked. A boy of thirteen, however desperate, cannot turn bushranger and hold up a populous farm, except in story-books. And he was no story-book hero, but merely little Teddy Winter, alone on a dreary country road, dressed in blue clothes that would tell the most casual passer-by that he was a hunted fugitive.

It occurred to him that his coat was the most conspicuous part of his outfit, and he hurriedly took it off, carrying it over his arm. In his grey shirt he felt safer, since people might not notice that his trousers were a peculiar shade of blue. He was bareheaded, because caps were not allowed in the Orphanage dormitories—even had they been, he would have left his behind, since its shape was different from that of the caps worn by ordinary boys. He thought of abandoning his coat, hiding it under a log, but he did not dare: the nights were cold, though it was October, and he knew that he must sleep somewhere in the open that night. So he went on doggedly, chewing on his problem, and finding no solution.

Towards evening he saw that he was approaching a township. That was not to be dared, so he cut across a paddock, meaning to skirt it, and presently, dipping into a gully, found himself near a lonely house. It looked quiet and home-like. Perhaps there were people there who might be as kind as John Price, if indeed the world held such another man. It was worth trying, at all events. He approached the house by the yard gate and tapped on the back door, his heart thumping.

A woman came to the door and looked at him suspiciously. She was a tall, thin woman with a hard face.

“Well?” she asked.

“I was wondering did you want a boy to work, ma’am?” Teddy stammered.

“A boy to work? I’d like to see myself bothered with one,” she said harshly.

“I can work hard,” he faltered.

“If you can, you’re the only boy ever I saw that could,” she returned. “No, I gave up having boys about long ago; there’s not one who isn’t ten times more trouble than he’s worth. There’s nothing for you here, so you’d better clear out. Mind you shut the gate properly.”

Teddy forced himself to ask another question.

“I—I s’pose you haven’t an old coat you could give me, ma’am?” It was not easy to say. Begging was a far more difficult thing than he had imagined.

“A coat? No, I’ve nothing for you,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t give to beggars at the door if I had. Get along—I’ve no time to be bothered with you.”

The door slammed in his face, and Teddy turned away with blazing cheeks. The horrible woman! Even if she had nothing she might have answered him kindly. He shut the gate with care, and relieved his feelings by putting out his tongue at the house. Then he hurried away across the paddock, sore and angry.

He crossed many fences, taking a line across country that would leave the township on his left. There were plenty of houses near him, but he did not feel brave enough to approach any of them; they were all busy farm-houses, with much movement of people and cows, for he was in a dairying district and it was the hour of the evening milking. Soon the township lay behind him and the houses grew more scattered. Ahead, he saw a thick line of trees. As he drew near it he noticed that it marked the course of a creek, a wide brown stream, flowing lazily. It was far too wide to cross, and there was no sign of a bridge. So he struck into a narrow cattle-path that ran beside it, fringed with a knee-high growth of wild mint that gave out a sharp fragrance when he brushed against it.

It was almost dusk when he came to a place where a huge tree, fallen across the creek, formed a natural foot-bridge; evidently a much-used one, for it had a hand-rail of fencing-wire supported on light stakes. Teddy crossed it and looked up and down. On one hand the level paddock stretched away, so far that he could see no fence; but on the other was a house. It stood near the creek, surrounded by a deep belt of orchard trees. Nearer, between him and the house, was a jumbled mass of sheds and stables: he guessed that the largest was a milking-shed, for a long line of cows was slowly stringing away from it through the deep grass. There were haystacks, too, and a big open barn that seemed nearly full of straw. Teddy was very tired; already it was dusk, and he felt that he could not go much farther.

“I could get into one of those stacks when they’re all gone away from the sheds,” he muttered. “I’ll try, anyhow.”

He walked slowly towards the sheds, keeping close to the trees by the creek, and when he drew near, hid himself in a clump of bushes where he could watch unseen. There were men busy about the buildings, but, as he had guessed, their work was nearly done; very soon he heard their voices growing fainter as they went away towards the lights of the house. When all was silent he crept out of his hiding-place and hurried across to the haystacks. They were tightly covered with tarpaulins, offering no chance of a bed, and so he turned his attention to the barn. That was better: the hay was loosely piled and there was plenty of space between it and the roof. Moreover, sacks lay about; good, clean, empty wheat-sacks that would be just as good as blankets. He possessed himself of three, clambered with difficulty into the highest part of the hay, and there made himself a nest in which he crouched to eat his supper.

It was quite dark long before he had finished, but the darkness did not trouble him. For the moment he was safe and warm and happy, and content to let the problems of the morrow look after themselves. He cuddled down into the sweet-scented hay with a great sigh of delight. Yesterday he had been an orphan; to-night he was a tramp. But how glorious to be a tramp! Even as he thought it he fell asleep.

He did not wake until long after daylight. Outside were the voices of men, and at first he gave a terrified start. Then he laughed at himself. No one could possibly see him here: he might lie safely concealed in the hay for weeks, for all that anyone would know. He had still some food, and there was no hurry. So he dragged his sacks very cautiously to where, lying on his face, he could see outside.

Evidently it was a big place. The house was two-storied, with a wide verandah and balcony, and he could catch glimpses of well-kept flower-beds. There were stables a little distance away where a couple of men were busy with horses. Presently one of them ran a motor out of its garage and began washing it. Nearer to the barn the milking was in full swing. It was pleasant to watch the cows in the yard, sleek, well-fed Ayrshires, chewing the cud contentedly as they waited for their turn in the bails. A boy came from the shed from time to time to drive in a cow. Teddy looked at him enviously. Such a happy boy, free to work with men. If only he could find a job like that!

In the yard near the house a small dog began to bark in an excited fashion. Looking towards the sound, Teddy saw a little girl running; and presently she came back, with a fox-terrier racing beside her in delirious joy, jumping up at her and saying “Good morning!” as plainly as possible. They had a great game together before she brought him his breakfast in a shallow brown dish. Then a lady appeared on the back verandah and called “Berta!” and the owner of the dog went reluctantly into the house. She was a small, square girl with two short plaits of yellow hair that bobbed on either side of a rosy face. Teddy had no special interest in girls, but it occurred to him that she looked what he termed “a good sort.”

The men came from the yard presently, and there was much coming and going about the barn. Teddy lay very still, but once a straw tickled his nose and nearly made him sneeze. He saved the sneeze by gripping the nose firmly; but the movement made the hay rustle, and he heard one of the men say, “I’ll bet there are mice in that hay—we’ll have to get the dogs in some time.” That was rather terrifying. Teddy scarcely dared to breathe until a bell rang somewhere and they all trooped to breakfast.

The men went away to work when breakfast was over, and soon the small girl came out, a school-bag slung over her shoulders, mounted a Shetland pony, and rode off, waving good-bye to a lady and gentleman, evidently her parents. Parents were very interesting people to Teddy; he watched them wistfully. Then they also went away in the motor. Teddy began to think that it was time for him to go, too.

But the boy was in the way—the boy who had been working in the cow-yard. He seemed to have endless odd jobs to do about the barn and the yard, and there was never a moment when it was safe for Teddy to climb down from the hay and make his escape. Women-servants, too, kept appearing on the back verandah from time to time—perhaps to make sure that the boy was doing his work properly.

“Darn them!” said Teddy heartily, when two or three hours had gone by. “Well, I s’pose they’ll go and have their dinners some time or other. Then I’ll be able to make a dart for it.”

He ate some more of his provisions. Mrs. Price’s sandwiches were getting very dry now, and eating was thirsty work. He hated the boy savagely when he saw him go to a tap and drink, splashing the water about in a tantalizing way. How hot it was in the warm, fragrant hay, with the sun beating on the barn roof just overhead! So hot that after another slow hour Teddy grew sleepy. He tried to keep awake by pinching himself, but the heat and his enforced stillness were too much for him. Even as he pinched he drifted away into dreamland.

Hours later he woke with a start. He peered out cautiously. No one was in sight; all the place seemed wrapped in the stillness of the hot afternoon. Very slowly and nervously Teddy crept down, dragging his sacks with him, lest anyone should discover them in the hay and become suspicious. He put them where he had found them, slipped out of the barn on the side farthest from the house, and ran down through the orchard. The thought crossed his mind that it might be more prudent to walk—but he could not walk. Even if it made him look like an escaping criminal, he had to run.

“Hi!”

A shrill voice cut across the stillness. Teddy stopped and spun round. No one was in sight. But the voice came again:

“Hi! What are you doing?”

That was a question Teddy had no thought of answering. Instead, he gaped silently towards the voice, which seemed, astonishingly, to come from mid-air.

Then he saw that it was the Small Girl. She was high up in a pine-tree, one of a group that stood like sentinels some distance from the house. Her pony was standing below, saddled, the bridle-reins trailing on the grass, and the Small Girl stood on a branch and yelled at him menacingly. Teddy had no fear of girls, but he dreaded what the shrill voice might bring upon him. He took to his heels again, and ran as if Mr. Pullinger himself were behind him.

The Small Girl was a person of determination. She swung herself down from the tree with amazing swiftness and was on the pony’s back in a twinkling. Teddy heard the galloping hoofs behind him as he raced towards the creek. If he could gain the log-bridge in time she could not follow, he thought rapidly; and before she could summon help he could be far enough away to lose himself in the scrub that grew thickly on the other side of the creek.

But the Small Girl knew the log-bridge even better than he did. She came, galloping; she passed him without a word and pulled up the pony with a scatter of hoofs just at the end of the log, barring his path to safety. Then she faced him defiantly, raising her whip.

“Now, you just stop!” she said.

“You get out of my way!” panted Teddy.

“No, I won’t, then. What were you doing in our barn?”

“I wasn’t doing any harm,” the boy said angrily.

“You were trespassing,” said the Small Girl sternly. “How do I know what you haven’t been stealing?”

“I never stole a thing. There wasn’t anything but old hay to steal.”

“Then you’ve stolen from somebody else, and you were hiding.”

“If you weren’t only a girl I’d hit you for sayin’ that,” flamed Teddy.

She flamed in answer:

“I’m not afraid of you, if I am a girl. My brother’d thrash you for being cheeky. Anyhow, you’ve got to come back an’ see what my father says about you.”

“I’d like to see you try to make me!”

“P’f!” she said. “I’ve only to yell, and the men will come.”

“Well, yell, then!” said Teddy desperately.

He sprang forward as he spoke, and tried to dodge past her. But she was too quick for him. At the touch of her heel the pony started forward, blocking him. Teddy struck at the chestnut neck furiously, only to stagger backwards as her whip cut him full across the face.

For a moment he was blind with pain and rage. Then he forgot altogether that she was a girl. He dashed at her and, in spite of the blows that rained upon him, wrenched the whip from her—and in a moment they were fighting wildly, while the pony danced in a circle. Had Teddy been cooler, it was his chance to have gained the bridge; but he was beyond anything but the lust of battle. He caught her wrist as a blow fell; the pony backed, there was a struggle, and then a thud; and he was standing over her as she lay on the ground, the pony half a dozen yards away. And the Small Girl was very queer and white and still.

He might have run away easily enough then, but he could not. He went down on one knee beside her, trembling with a fear that was not for himself. Had he killed her? She was quite motionless, and her brown face had turned an unpleasant greyish-white. Her arms were outflung in a helpless way. He had not realized how small she was—on the pony she had been a raging demon in his eyes, but now she was just a little, hurt child. And he had done it—a boy! He gave a dry sob of misery.

“I say, are you hurt much?” he said, hoping she would answer. But no answer came. A dreadful silence had come upon the afternoon like a cloud.

The Small Girl’s felt hat had fallen off. Teddy took it and ran down to the edge of the creek, and brought it back full of water, that slopped and leaked as he stumbled up the bank. Her handkerchief was sticking out of her pocket; he took it and bathed her head clumsily, not knowing what else to do. And presently, to his intense relief, she stirred. Her eyes opened and she looked at him in a bewildered manner, and murmured something that sounded like “Dick.”

“Just you keep still,” he said, his voice trembling. “You’ll be better in a minute.” He went on bathing her head.

The colour was coming back into her face, the bewildered look leaving her eyes. She wriggled uneasily.

“I say, look out—you’re making me all wet!” she said. “What’s up? Where’s Barney?”

Teddy did not know who Barney was, but he answered hurriedly:

“He’s all right. Feel better?”

“ ’M,” she said. “Do stop making me wet. Oh, you’re the boy!” She looked at him with a sort of weak anger.

“Yes, but I’m sorry,” he said. “Do you think you’re broken anywhere? Can you move?”

She wriggled and sat up—and immediately lay down again.

“I’m all right,” she said. “Head feels a bit rummy, that’s all.” She prodded it gingerly, and made a face. “I’m all horrid and wet. What happened?”

“I—I pulled you off,” he answered, his voice shaking so that he could say no more. A big lump came in his throat. He got up and turned his back, and she heard a dry sob, and then another.

The Small Girl commanded her shaken forces and sat up again.

“I say, don’t,” she said gently.

“I—thought I’d killed you,” Teddy gulped.

“Well, you didn’t, so don’t worry. And I hit you first,” she added apologetically. “But I had to look after the place, with Dad away.”

“You were all right,” he said. “But I was a cad to hit you. I clean forgot you were a girl.”

He turned, and she saw his face, and caught her breath. There was a scarlet weal right across it, with other marks of battle.

“Oh!” she said. “Oh, I did hurt you!” She flushed scarlet. “I’m sorry—true, I am.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he muttered. They looked at each other, a dawning friendliness in their eyes.

“You hadn’t really been doing anything wrong in the barn, I s’pose?” said the keeper of her father’s property.

“No, true, I hadn’t. I only slept there last night.”

“In the hay! But weren’t you cold?”

“No. I had some sacks. But I couldn’t get away all day, ’cause there was always some one about.”

“And hadn’t you anything to eat?”

“Oh, yes. But I hadn’t anything to drink. And I’m ever so thirsty. I’ll get a drink now.”

He went to the creek again. When he returned, the Small Girl was sitting on the end of the log-bridge.

“Where do you live?” she demanded.

“Don’t live anywhere.”

“But your father and mother?”

“Haven’t got any.”

“But—but persons must live somewhere,” she said, puzzled. Then her eyes grew round. “You—you haven’t been in jail?”

Teddy laughed.

“No—true as death, I haven’t.”

“And where are you going?”

“To find a job.”

“You’re too small,” she said decidedly.

“No, I’m not—I can work.”

“H’m,” said she, with doubt in her voice. Then another bright idea came to her. “I b’lieve you’ve run away,” she stated.

She was startled at the wave of colour that dyed his face. It did not occur to him to lie.

“Well, you needn’t tell anyone, if I have.”

“I won’t tell.” She looked at him with respect. “I think you’re brave. Have you run far?”

“Ever so far,” he said.

“I’ve always wanted to meet some one who’d run away,” said the Small Girl, much impressed. “Dick and I often planned we’d run away, but somehow we never did. It would have worried Dad and Mother. But as you haven’t any, of course it’s all right. I say, you might tell me all about it. I’d never tell a soul. Dick always says I can keep a secret. He’s my brother, bigger’n me.”

“Sure you won’t?” Teddy asked doubtfully.

“True’s life—cross my heart and wish I may die!” she assured him. “Oh, go on—do tell me, boy!”

So he told her, sitting on the grass by the log, and the Small Girl thrilled delightfully over his escape in the night and gurgled with joy over his day with John Price. She flushed hotly when she heard of the woman who had hunted him from her door.

“That must have been Mrs. Smithers. She’s a horrid woman—I know her. She came an’ told Dad when Dick an’ I chased rabbits on her nasty old farm. I hope she won’t tell the police you went there.”

“It’s the police I’m afraid of,” Teddy said dolefully. “Them—and Mr. Pullinger. He’s awfully clever.”

“He must be an old beast!” said the Small Girl, frowning. “Would he beat you if he caught you?”

“I s’pose so. But it wouldn’t be the beating I’d mind—only being caught. I can’t go back again!” The boy’s voice was almost a cry. It wrung the heart of the other child who sat on the log with her wet hair dank about her round face.

“Ah, don’t—he won’t get you,” she said comfortingly.

“It’s my beastly clothes.” Teddy’s voice was despairing. “I can’t get any others—and the first policeman I see will spot me for an Orphanage boy. I wouldn’t care a button for anyone if I could get some other clothes.”

The Small Girl sprang to her feet, cutting an exultant caper.

“I’ll get you some!”

“You!” He stared at her.

“Yes—easy! Dick’s. Dick’s gone to boarding-school, you know, and all his old things are in the cupboard in his room, so’s he can wear them in the holidays. I can slip up an’ get a suit—he’s a bit bigger’n you, but it will do well enough.”

“But—but ...” He flushed. “Look at the way I hit you—I might have killed you.”

“Well. I hit you first,” said she. “And I think you were pretty decent—you might have run away as easy as easy, and you stayed and bathed my head. You might even have stolen Barney, and you didn’t. So I think we’re quits, and it’s all square. And it’s going to be a scrumptious adventure to tell Dick about when he comes home. He’d like you to have his clothes, I know.”

“But your mother? Won’t there be an awful row when she finds out?”

The Small Girl shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, there has to be a row now and then! But I’ll tell Mother—in a week or so, when you’re quite safe. Don’t you worry. You stay there, and I’ll slip up to the house on Barney—Dad and Mother won’t be home yet. P’raps you’d better hide in the scrub across the creek. I’ll come back an’ whistle.”

She crammed her wet hat on her yellow head and was in the saddle before she had finished speaking. In another moment she was racing towards the house.

Teddy crossed the log-bridge—just now he had fought for it like a madman, and now his foe had turned to a fellow-conspirator, and Hope was dancing before him like a will-o’-the-wisp. His head was whirling as he crouched in the scrub, waiting for her return. It seemed an age before he heard the pony’s hoofs again, and the Small Girl’s quick feet on the log. Then came a low whistle, and he ran to meet her.

“I’m awful sorry I was so long!” she panted. “I had the work of the world to dodge Bridget. But I’ve got them. Here you are!”

She was on her knees, unwrapping a bundle wrapped in a piece of sacking.

“It’s a pretty decent suit. I brought a blue shirt, too, ’cause some one might spot your grey one. And a tie. And a hat. And some tucker. That’s what made it hard to dodge Bridget, ’cause she’s always suspicious if I go to the pantry.” She chuckled. “Good thing it was baking-day; she’d made stacks of things.”

She tumbled them out of a brown-paper bag: a mingled mass of sausage-rolls and cakes and turnover tarts. From the pockets of her jumper came two tins of sardines.

“You can buy some bread to eat with those,” she said wisely.

Teddy could only gape.

“I say!” he said. “I say! Oh, but you are a brick! I’ll hate myself as long as I live for having hit you.”

The Small Girl frowned.

“Don’t you be an ass,” she commanded. “Now, you cut into the scrub and change, and I’ll find some big stones, and we’ll tie them up in your Orphunt things an’ put ’em right in the creek. An’ that’ll be the end of them. An’ then we’ll see if your old Pullinger-man will ever find you!”

She was waiting with an exultant face when he came back.

“I say, you look jolly decent in Dick’s suit!” she stated. “It’s hardly a bit too big. And the hat’s all right too. Everything feel all right?”

But he did not need to answer her: his glowing face was enough. With the shedding of the hated Orphanage clothes he seemed to have shed the last remnants of fear. Now he was a boy, as other boys, and free. He looked at the Small Girl as though she were an angel from heaven.

The Small Girl at the moment was far more like an imp. With ecstasy she helped him to tie the blue clothes in a weighted bundle and to sink it in a deep, snaggy bend of the creek where no fisherman would ever cast a line. She capered anew as the bubbles rose over the place of burial.

“It’s a ’normous adventure!” she said. “Dick will be wild as a meat-axe ’cause he wasn’t in it. Now you’ve got to tell me your name, and how old you are.”

“I’m Teddy Winter—and I’m thirteen.”

“And I’m Berta Branston—and I’m twelve. Right-oh. And will you write some day an’ tell me how you got on?”

“My word, I will,” he said. “And—and—I haven’t said ‘Thank you’ a bit, ’cause the words just stick. But if you knew! Oh, if you knew how it feels to be—like this.”

“Jolly decent,” said the Small Girl. “Don’t you worry about saying ‘Thank you.’ It’s been no end of fun.”

They shook hands solemnly.

“It might be as well,” said the Small Girl thoughtfully, “if you cut across the paddock an’ took the back road. ’Cause if you went by the front road you might meet Dad an’ Mother, an’ they might spot Dick’s suit. Mother’s awful quick at spotting things she shouldn’t!”

“Right,” agreed Teddy. His hand, thrust into the pocket of Dick’s trousers, encountered something, and his face grew puzzled. From the other pocket he drew out his four-and-sixpence, looking at it doubtfully.

“I thought so,” he said. “That’s mine, all right. But this isn’t. Your brother must have left it here.” The first hand came out, and he showed her a half-crown lying in its palm.

The Small Girl reddened.

“Oh—that’s yours,” she mumbled.

“No, it isn’t. Here’s mine.”

“Oh, well, it’s all right,” she said gruffly. “I put it there. You’ll want it before you find a job. It was my own, so you needn’t worry.”

Teddy shook his head.

“No. The clothes an’ the tucker are diff’rent, ’cause I’m awful stuck. But I can’t take your money.”

“Why on earth can’t you?”

“I d’know. But I can’t. Thanks awfully, all the same—just as much as if I did take it.” With a quick movement he slipped the coin into the pocket of her jumper, seeing that arguments burned upon her lips. He stood back, smiling at her.

The Small Girl was visibly annoyed.

“Well, I think that’s all rot,” she stated. “I didn’t mean you to find it out before you got away. Wish you hadn’t. But, I say—if you don’t get a job, you come back here, an’ Dad’ll find you one.” She told him the address, and he repeated it after her.

“I’ll remember that,” he said, “ ’cause some day I’ll send back money for the clothes. But I wouldn’t dare come back myself—Mr. Pullinger might track me. I’ve just got to lose myself now.”

“There’ll be a row if ever you send back money,” said she. “But you can write when you’ve got a good job an’ made heaps of money. They couldn’t take you back and make you an Orphunt again, then.” She came a step nearer, her manner dark with mystery and conspiracy. “And if I was you, I’d take another name!”

“Think so?” he asked doubtfully.

“ ’M,” she nodded. “Dick an’ I always planned to if we’d run away. ’Cause the police track you by your name. You call yourself Horace Plantagenet, or something like that!”

“Sounds a bit frilly,” said Teddy. “I think I’d better pick out something shorter. But it’s a good idea. I’ll think up a name as I go along. An’ I guess I’d better be gettin’ along now.”

“And you don’t know where you’re going?” she asked, her face troubled.

“Not an idea,” said Teddy cheerfully. “But what’s it matter? There’s everywhere to go to.”

“Well, there is. But you mightn’t like all of it.”

“Oh, well, if I don’t I’ll go somewhere else.” His eyes were dancing. The Small Girl laughed in answer to their confident mirth.

“Well, so-long,” she said. “Good luck.”

They shook hands again. She stood with her arm across the pony’s neck and watched the thin figure in the ill-fitting clothes until the trees swallowed him.

Twenty minutes later, as Teddy plodded along the back road, came the sound of galloping hoofs, and in a moment the Small Girl had pulled up beside him.

“Came to give you this,” she panted. She held out a stout pocket-knife.

“Aw, you shouldn’t have,” said the boy. “I don’t want it.” But he did want it, terribly; only a boy without a knife could guess how much. He dropped his eyes lest she should see the longing in them.

“ ’Tisn’t safe to be without a weapon,” said the Small Girl decidedly. “By rights you ought to have a six-shooter when you take the trail: Dick always said so. But Dad might be annoyed if I took his. But it’s my own knife, so that’s diff’rent. You just take it; you never know your luck!”

Teddy hesitated. Then the knife pitched into the dust at his feet and the Small Girl wheeled Barney and went off again at a gallop.