Then Leila said, “It’s very hot, Uncle Jim.”

“You small fiend,” said Penhallow.  “Hot!  On your way, John, tell those rascals at Westways they may use the pond.”  The faint smile on Ann Penhallow’s face somehow set the whole business in an agreeably humorous light.  The Squire broke into the relief of laughter and rose saying, “Get out of this, all of you, if you want to keep your scalps.”

John went to the stable not quite pleased.  He had felt that his punishment for a boy-frolic and the unexpected results of Billy’s alarm had been pretty large.  His aunt had not said so to him, but had made it clear to her husband that the penalty was quite disproportioned to the size of the offence; a remark which had made him the more resolute not to disturb the course of justice; and now this chit of a girl had made him seem like an irresolute fool, and he would have to explain to Rivers, who would laugh.  As he went out of the hall-door, he felt a pretty rough little paw in his hand and heard a whisper.  “You’re just the dearest thing ever was.”

Concerning John Penhallow, it is to be said that he did not understand why he was let off so easily.  He had a suspicion that Leila was somehow concerned, and also the feeling that he would rather have suffered to the end.  However, it would be rather good fun to announce this swimming-permit to the boys.

Seeing from his shop door John riding down the avenue, Josiah came limping across the road.  He leaned on the gate facing the boy and looking over the horse and rider with the pleasure of one who, as the Squire liked to say, knew when horse-flesh and man-flesh were suitably matched.

“Girth’s a bit slack, Master John.  Always look it over, sir, before you mount.”

“Thanks, Josiah.  Open the gate, please.  How lame you are.  I am to send the doctor to look after you and Peter Lamb.”

The big black man opened the gate and adjusted the girth.  “That’s right now.  I’ve got the worst rheumatics I ever did have.  Peter Lamb’s sick too.  That’s apple-whisky.  The Squire’s mighty patient with that man, because his mother nursed the Squire when he was a baby.  They’re near of an age, but you wouldn’t think it to look at Peter and the Captain; whisky does hurry up Old Time a lot.”  And so John got the town gossip.  “I ain’t no faith in doctorin’ rheumatics; wouldn’t have him now if I hadn’t lost my old buck-eye.  My rabbit-foot’s turned grey this week.  That’s a sign of trouble.”

John laughed and rode from the gate on which Leila had invited him to indulge in the luxury of swinging.  It seemed years ago since she had sung to his astonishment the lyric of the gate.  She appeared to him now not much older.  And how completely he felt at home.  He rode along the old pike through Westways, nodding to Mrs. Lamb, the mother of the scamp whom the Squire was every now and then saving from the consequences of the combination of a revengeful nature and bad whisky.  Then Billy hailed John with malicious simplicity.