“Halloa!—­John—­can’t swim—­can’t swim—­ho, ho!”

The butcher’s small boy was loading meat on a cart.  John stayed to say a word to him, pleased to have the chance, as the boy grinned at Billy’s mocking malice.  “Halloa!  Pole,” he called.  “My uncle says we fellows may swim.  Tell the other fellows.”

“Gosh! but that’s good—­John.  I’ll tell ’em.”

John rode on and fell to thinking of Leila, with some humiliating suspicion in regard to her share in the Squire’s change of mind; or was it Aunt Ann’s influence?  And why did he himself not altogether like it?  Why should his aunt and Leila interfere?  He wished they had let the matter alone.  What had a girl to do with it?  He was again conscious that he felt of a sudden older than Leila, and did not fully realize that in the race of life he had gone swiftly past her during these few months, and that in the next year she in turn would sweep past him in the developmental changes of life.  Now she seemed to him more timid, more childlike than usual; but long thinkings are not of the psychic habits of normal youth, and Dixy recovered his attention.

He satisfied the well-bred horse, who of late had been losing his temper in the society of a rough groom, ignorant of the necessity for good manners with horses.  Neither strange noises nor machines disturbed Dixy as John rode through the busy iron-mills to the door of a small brick house, so well known that no sign announced it as the home of the only medical man available at the mills or in Westways.  John tied Dixy to the hitching-post, gnawed by the doctor’s horse during long hours of waiting on an unpunctual man.

The doors were open, and as John entered he was aware of an odour of drugs and saw Dr. McGregor sound asleep in an armchair, a red silk handkerchief over his bald head, and a swarm of disappointed flies hovering above him.  In the back room the clink and rattle of a pestle and mortar ceased as Tom appeared.

John, in high good-humour, said, “Good afternoon, Tom.  My uncle has let up on the swimming.  He asked me to let you fellows know.”

“It’s about time,” said Tom crossly.  “After all it was your fault and we had to pay for it.”

“Now, Tom, you made me pretty angry when you talked to me the other day, and if you want to get me into another row, I won’t object; but I was not asked for any names, and I did not put the blame on any one.  Can’t you believe a fellow?”

“No, I can’t.  If that parson hadn’t come, I’d have licked you.”

“Perhaps,” said John.

“Isn’t any perhaps about it.  You look out, that’s all.”

John laughed.  He was just now what the Squire described as horse-happy and indisposed to quarrel.  “Suppose you wake up the old gentleman.  He can snore.”

Tom shook the doctor’s shoulder, “Wake up, Dad.  Here’s John Penhallow.”

The Doctor sat up and pulled off his handkerchief.  The flies fell upon his bald pate.  “Darn the flies,” he said.  “What is it, John?”