“Lively sort o’ limb, this new leg o’ yours, Sir,” commented Lubin, as he bent it into a more decorous position.  “You’ll have to take care it don’t carry you off with it one o’ these fine days.  Seems to me it wants taming, and learning how to behave itself in company.  I heard tell of a cork leg once upon a time as was that nimble it started off running on its own account, and no earthly power could stop it.  Wouldn’t have mattered so much if it’d had nobody but itself to consider, but unluckily the gentleman it belonged to happened to be screwed on to the top end of it, and of course he had to follow.  They do say as how he’s following it still—­poor beggar!  Must be worn to a shadow by this time, I should think.  But p’raps it ain’t true after all.  There are folks as’ll say anything.”

“I expect it’s true enough,” replied Austin cheerfully.  “If you want a thing to be true, all you’ve got to do is to believe it—­believe it as hard as you can.  That makes it true, you see.  At least, that’s what the new psychology teaches.  Thought creates things, you understand—­though how it works I confess I can’t explain.  But never mind.  Oh, dear, how drunk I am!”

“Drunk, Sir?  No, no, only a bit giddy,” said Lubin, as he stood watching Austin with his hands upon his hips.  “You’re not over strong yet, and that new leg of yours has been giving you too much exercise to begin with.  You just keep quiet a few minutes, and you’ll soon be as right as ninepence.”

Then Austin slid carefully off the seat, and stretched himself full length upon the grass.  “I am drunk,” he murmured, closing his eyes, “drunk with the scent of the flowers.  Don’t you smell them, Lubin?  The air’s heavy with it, and it has got into my brain.  And how sweet the grass smells too.  I love it—­it’s like breathing the breath of Nature.  What do legs matter?  It’s much nicer to roll over the grass wherever you want to go than to have the bother of walking.  Don’t worry about me any more, nice Lubin.  Go on tying up your sweet-peas.  I’ll come and help you when I’m tired of rolling about.  Just now I don’t want anything; I’m drunk—­I’m happy—­I’m satisfied—­I’m happier than I ever was before.  Be kind to the flowers, Lubin; don’t tie them too tight.  They’re my friends and my lovers.  Aren’t you a little fond of them too?”

Then, left to his own reflections, he lay perfectly peaceful and content staring up into the sky.  For months he had been fated to lead an entirely new life, and now it had actually begun.  His entrance upon it was not bitter.  He had flowers growing by his path, and books that he loved, and one or two friends who loved him.  It was all right!  And that was how he spent his first day of acknowledged cripplehood.

Chapter the Second